FROM   THE  LIBRARY  OF 
REV.   LOUIS    FITZGERALD    BENSON,  D.  D. 

BEQUEATHED   BY   HIM   TO 

THE   LIBRARY  OF 

PRINCETON  THEOLOGICAL  SEMINARY 


DiTteoa    -S^B 
Sectlou        /t    I^cX 


-K^* 


•0*WfrL 


THE  /\^ 


&P  OF  W% 


POEM 


OCT  11  1933 


OF 


WILLIAM  B.  TAPPAN. 


PHILADELPHIA: 
HENRY  PERKTXS-CHESTNUT  STREET. 

NEW  YORK LEAVITT,   LORD   &  CO. 

BOSTON PERKINS  &  MARVIN. 

1834. 


-*^V* 


/  Ashmead  &  Co.  Printers. 


COXTENTS. 


THE  NATIVITY  -  Page  13 

To  the  Stars  14 

My  Boy  Sleeping       -------  15 

There  is  an  hour  of  peaceful  rest  ...  -  17 

Filial  Love 18 

One  hundred  years  from  now       -----  19 
Ode  for  the  Fiftieth  Anniversary  of  the  Battle  of  Bunker's  Hill  20 

Prayer  written  during  a  Pestilence       -  22 

There  is  a  Harp         -------  23 

Sixteen 23 

The  Departed 25 

The  Maternal  Prayer  Meeting  ...         -  26 

Christ  Rejected -  28 

Christ  Risen  29 

Why  should  we  sigh 30 

Warriors  of  the  Revolution 31 

Rev.  John  Sumrnerfield  33 

When  death  shall  lay  -__..-  34 

Conflagration  of  the  Orphan  Asylum  at  Philadelphia      -  35 

I  knew  the  Boy 36 

Gethsemane  ---....  37 

The  Slaveholder's  Throne 38 

You  asked  I  rememher       ------  40 

Love        -----...-  41 

American  Slavery      ---.---  42 

Weep  not 44 

Uzzah 45 

To  the  North  Star 46 

Charles  Carroll  of  Carrollton        -----  47 

I  said  thus  to  my  Glass        ------  49 

Palestine  --,-.---  51 

Star  of  Bethlehem 52 

Close  of  the  Week 54 

The  Wail  of  the  Deep 55 

The  Field  Star  of  Bethlehem 56 

Home  of  my  Youth  ------  57 

1  he  Magdalen's  Hymn  -----  58 

The  Albion  59 

Retrospection  -------  61 

The  Vigil 62 

The  Bunker  Hill  Monument       ....         -  63 

What  dost  thou  here  ------  64 

The  Wreck  65 


iv  INDEX. 

To  a  Young  Friend  with  a  pocket  Testament         -  Page  65 

Thy  WiH  be  Done                66 

There's  Rest  for  the  Weary 67 

Charles  H.  Parker              68 

Chilese  Warrior's  Song                ......  go. 

Redemption                ..-...-  71 

My  Departed  Child             ----..  72 

The  Morning  Star               73 

Sonnet— the  Tomb               74 

Hymn  to  the  Dead               75 

My  Country                76 

Why  do  I  love  thee 78 

Founded  on  a  fact  that  occurred  Sept.  1826             -  79 

The  Thorn  of  Life 81 

The  Boatman's  Return                82 

When  the  Rose  in  Sharon  blooming               -  84 

Before  me  lies  the  troublous  Deep,                ...  85 

I  long  had  loved  thee                    .....  86 

To  the  Crescent 88 

When  cold  in  the  dust                 .....  89 

They  shall  lie  down  alike            -          -          -          -      -  -  91 

Yes  they  have  fled— the  war-whoop's  call               -  93 

Song  of  the  Mariner           ------  94 

Extract  from  the  Italian               95 

The  Maniac                _..--..  96 

Mary  at  the  Sepulchre        ------  97 

To  a  Youthful  Friend                   98 

0  thou  that  plead'st  with  pitying  love           ...  99 

Death  of  General  Stark                100 

The  Red  Breast 102 

The  Convict  Boy 103 

To  the  New  Year                -         -         -         -          -         -  104 

The  House  of  Industry                 ...          -          -  106 

The  Missionary's  Grave  in  the  Desert             .         -         -  107 

The  Sailor's  Hymn 108 

-  O  Come  Smiling  June         ------  109 

The  Barbadoes  Girl  to  her  Lover           -          -          -          -  HO 

Birth  of  Duelling                 112 

My  Boy's  Grave                   113 

The  Prophecy  of  Noah 114 

Shall  the  Warrior  flee  his  Home            -         -         -         -  118 

1  cannot  but  sigh                  -         -         -          -         -         -  119 

The  Captive  Jewess -  120 


INDEX. 


To  the  Sensitive  Plant         ------ 

The  African  Convert 

The  Flower  of  Lebanon  - 

I  fain  would  know  if  she  who  lately  fled 

Wake  Isles  of  the  South  ...         - 

Translation  of  do.  -  - 

I  saw  the  Outcast        -  - 

Commodore  M'Donough  -  -  -  - 

We  Wander       -  -  -  -  -  - 

Is  there  a  Heart  -  - 

Summer  -  -  -  -  -  - 

Prayer  for  the  African  Mission     -         -         -         - 

Forsaken  is  Nazareth 

Prayer  for  Greece  - 

late  of  the  Pilot  Boat  -         -         -         - 

'Tis  to  the  East  the  Hebrew  bends 

American  Sunday  School  Union  Buildings 

The  Chinese  Mission  - 

Hymn  for  the  Celebration  of  the  Forty-Ninth  Anniversar 

of  American  Independence 
Farewell  to  New  England         -  - 

When  o'er  long  night  the  bursting  dawn 
When  the  last  tear  -  -  -  - 

On  viewing  Trumbull's  Painting  - 

My  Native  Village  - 

La  Fayette  -  -  - 

The  Thunder  Storm  -  ... 

Ruins  of  James  Town,  Va.     -  - 

The  Last  Voyage  -  -  -  . 

Last  Veteran  of  the  Revolution  - 

What  heart  has  not  false  hope  misled 

I  love  at  evening's  silent  tide  - 

To  an  interesting  Young  Lady  deaf  and  dumb 

Eternity         -  -  -  ... 

To  the  Dove  -  -  - 

Look  at  'tother  side  -  ... 

The  Brook  Kedron  -  - 

The  White  Hills  of  New  Hampshire 

Hymn  sung  in  Castle  Garden,  New  York 

Worship  -  -  - 

Abisbal's  Invocation  -  - 

Scio— 1822  -  -  - 

The  Infant  School         -  - 


jge  121 
122 
123 
124 
126 
127 
128 
130 
131 
132 
133 
134 
136 
136 
138 
140 
141 
143 


vi  INDEX. 

1  love  the  bosom  that  can  feel  -  -  -  Page  171 

Why  weepest  thou  -  172 

The  soul  that  wings  her  airy  flight  173 

Years  past— Years  to  come       -  ...  -  174 

When  thou  calmly  sleepest       -  176 

0  come  from  a  World  -  -  -  -  -  177 

1  dreamed  of  Loveliness  -  179 
Is  it  not  a  little  one  -  180 
Wearied  with  play  that  night  -  -  -  -  181 
Music  of  Light  -  -  183 
The  Prison  -  -  185 
To  my  Daughter  Zelia  -  186 
To  a  Deaf  and  Dumb  Girl  -  188 
The  West  -  -  -  190 
Written  at  Long  Meadow,  Mass.  ....  192 
Mission  Ships  -  -  -  194 
Desolation  of  Tyre  -  -  195 
Twilight  Song  of  the  Shepherds  of  the  Andes  -  -  196 
Prayer  for  the  Dead  -  ....  197 
Sweet  orb  of  Night  I  saw  thee  rise  ...  199 
The  House  of  Refuge  -  .  ...  199 
A  thousand  Warriors  to  the  charge  ...  201 
Happiness— where  is  it  -  203 
I  have  never  seen  the  righteous  forsaken  -  -  204 
On  my  Friend  presenting  his  Infant  at  the  Baptismal  Fount  205 

Ye  Dead  -  - 205 

Ararat  -  -  -----  207 

Death  Bed  of  the  Pious  209 

Come!  -  - 210 

The  Soldiers  of  the  Cross 211 

Apostrophe  to  the  Brig  Tontine  -         -         -         -  213 

To  George  B.  English,  Esq.  -  -  -  -  214 

O,  let  her  linger  yet  a  while  -  215 

Occasioned  by  an  incident  during  a  Storm  -         -  216 

The  Incarnation  -  -  -  218 

Epitaph  in  the  Cathedral  of  Sienna  ...  219 

The  American  Banner         -  -  -  220 

To  Winter  -  -  -  221 

Fourth  of  July        -  -  -  -  -  -  222 

To  Lafayette  -  -  -  -  224 

Occasioned  by  the  expected  presence  of  Lafayette  -  225 

Lafayette  at  the  Tomb  of  Washington  227 

The  Slave  Ship  -  -  228 


I 


INDEX. 

^  11 

The  Incendiary                      - 

Page  229 

What  is   Eternity 

230 

The  Bethel  Flag 

232 

The  Castaway                        ... 

234 

Mrs.  A.R. 

336 

The  Blind 

237 

The  Children's  Church 

239 

Chapel  in  Liberia                   ... 

240 

God  our  God  his  power  revealing 

241 

To  certain  Duellists              - 

243 

Occasioned  by  Gordon  Hall's  Appeal 

244 

Sunday  School  Jubilee 

245 

In  prospect  of  the  Cholera 

247 

For  Deliverance  from  Pestilence 

248 

Peace              -              -              -              - 

250 

Rev.  Adoniram  Judson             -              - 

352 

Christ  in  the  Tempest               -              - 

255 

'Tis  well  that  ye  reject  the  Cup 

256 

Death  of  the  Patriots  Adams  and  Jefferson 

257 

Verses— the  Jefferson  Fund 

259 

Requiem                    .... 

260 

To  my  Mother  in  New  England 

262 

My  Father's  Grave 

264 

Maternal  Love         - 

266 

Paganism  could  not  Reply                  -              - 

268 

The  Year                  - 

269 

Removal  of  the  Remains  of  Commodore  Perry 

270 

To  one  that  meditated  Suicide 

272 

Simeon's  Prophecy                -              -              - 

273 

Song  of  the  Warriors             -               -               . 

275 

Ye  Spirits  of  the  Just            -              -              - 

276 

To  the  Holy  Alliance            -              -              . 

277 

Death  of  Fisk          - 

279 

Occasioned  by  the  Removal  of  the  Cherokees 

280 

Mrs.  Sarah  J.                -               -               -          .          . 

282 

To  my  two  Children                 -              - 

283 

Invocation                    -              -              - 

285 

Revolutions                 -              -              - 

286 

Departure  of  the  Missionaries              - 

289 

The  Burman's  Question              - 

292 

Obey  your  Parents 

293 

Edward  Payson               -               - 

294 

The  Missionary                -              - 

295 

INDEX. 


\V.  B.  P.  of  England  ....  page  29a 

The  Camp  Meeting       -  299 

For  the  Orphan 

The  Sailor  as  he  was — as  he  is 

Thy  Wandering  Boy     - 

The  Cross 

Children's  Worship 

Pilgrimage  of  the  Dead 

Joseph  Eastburn 

Who  is  my  Neighbour 

Tributary 

Feast  of  the  Dead 

G.  W-  of  the  U.  S.  Frigate  Constitution 

Launch  of  the  North  Carolina 

The  heavens  were  still 

Spain  -  -  - 

To  the  surviving  Defenders  of  the  Castle  of  St  Juan  de  Ulua 

Away,  away  through  Trackless  Space 

The  Bearing  of  the  Cross 

The  Ransomed  Spirit  to  her  home 

Unholy  Thoughts 

Idols  Rejected 

What  is  Death 

'Twas  Deity  that  died 

Union— Nullification 

Beauty  in  the  Grave 

Precious  Dust  is  that     - 


■  B- 


Hast  thou  seen  the  Cloud  of  Morning 

Sunday  School  Hymns 

My  Country— Liberty     -  - 

All  are  not  Free  -  - 

An  Evening  Thought 

Music  -  -  - 

The  Children  of  America 

Yes  it  is  sweet  to  Contemplate 

Cape  May  -  -  - 

The  Father  Mourned  his  Only  Son 

For  my  Child 

Verses  on  an  ancient  Pear  Tree  imported  from  Holland 

Europe— 1826 

We  may  hallow  the  spot 

The  Weary  Wheels 


302 
303 
305 
307 
308 
310 
311 
313 
314 
315 
316 
317 
318 
320 
321 
323 
324 
325 
326 
327 
328 
330 
331 
333 
335 
337 
337 
338—342 
343 
344 
345 
346 
347 
349 
349 
351 
352 
354 
356 
357 
359 


TO  THE  READER. 

This  volume  is  published,  because,  among 
other  reasons,  I  wish  to  call  home  such  of  my 
articles  as  have  wandered  in  both  hemispheres 
without  a  name;  and  which  public  favour  would 
seem  to  indicate  as  not  unworthy  of  being 
claimed.  Several  of  these  have  been  copied  so 
frequently  into  various  periodicals,  as  anony- 
mous, that  their  right  to  a  place  here,  may  pos- 
sibly require  to  be  duly  certified  by  tins  acknow- 
ledgment of  them  as  my  own. 

The  origin  of  these  pieces  is  to  be  traced,  for 
the  most  part,  to  a  desire  to  please  myself  by 
the  indulgence  of  a  reigning  inclination;  yet,  in 
offering  them  to  the  public  I  am  unfeigned  ly  so- 
licitous that  welcomings  may  greet  these  fruits 
of  an  impulse  which  has  constantly  led  me  into 
the  fields  of  sons; :  among;  the  cultivators  of 
which  I  am  willing  to  confess  my  desire  to  be 
found. 


10  TO   THE  READER. 

The  belief  that  some  of  these  pieces  have  oc- 
casionally kindled  the  glow  and  warmed  the 
piety  of  Christians  in  this  and  other  lands,  gives 
unalloyed  pleasure.  Several  of  them  will  be 
recognized  as  being  enrolled  with  Zion's  songs 
— not  unknown  in  the  sanctuary,  nor  strangers 
to  the  place  of  private  devotion. 


There  are  yet  flowers  in  life's  wilderness 
That  fling  upon  the  air  a  sweet  perfume, 

And  with  the  charm  of  Eden-loveliness 

Sooth  man's  sojoumings  to  the  quiet  tomb. 

None  live,  so  hopeless,  abject  and  unknown 
As  nor  to  covet,  nor  to  gather  these. 

They  cluster  every  where,  and  round  liim  still 

Their  presence  throw,  who  seeks  to  be  alone. 
And  yet  their  sweets  no  witchery  have  to  please 

The  proud,  that  careless  pluck  with  wanton  will. 

Fairest  of  lingerers  in  earth's  sunny  bowers; 
The  delicate,  not  found  amid  the  throng — 

The  pleasant  solacer  of  hidden  hours- 
Still,  still  be  mine  the  Blossomings  of  Song. 


POEMS. 


THE  NATIVITY* 

Jubea's  plains  in -silence  sleep 

Beneath  the  cloudless  midnight  sky  \ 
And  o'er  their  flocks  the  shepherds  keep 

Kind  watch,  to  David's  city  nigh  : 
That  royal  city  ! — nobler  Guest 

Is  she  awhile  to  entertain, 
Than  proudest  monarch,  whose  behest 

It  is  o'er  earthly  realms  to  reign  i 
By  Him  salvation  is  to  mortals  given, 
On  earth  is  shed  the  peerless  noon  of  Heaven, 

For  see,  along  the  deep  blue  arch 

A  glory  breaks — and  now  a  throng, 
From  where  the  sparkling  planets  march, 

Come  trooping  down  with  shout  and  song ; 
And  o'er  those  pastures,  bath'd  in  light, 

The  sacred  legions  stay  their  wing, 
"While  on  the  wakeful  ear  of  night, 

Steals  the  rich  hymn  that  Seraphs  sing ; 
And  sweetly  thus  the  mellow  accents  ran, 
"  Glory  to  God,  Good  Will  and  Peace  to  Man  \" 


14  THE  POEMS  OF 


TO  THE  STARS. 

Fair  stars  !  upon  the  brow  of  night 
Ye  look,   from  yonder  fields  of  blue, 
Where  ye,  5mid  melody  of  light, 
Bright  wheeling  worlds  !   your  way  pursue. 

Ye  never  tire, — pure  diadems, 
The  marshalled  sentinels  on  high, 
Ye  shine,  and  ever  shine,  the  gems 
That  fringe  the  curtain  of  the  sky. 

Minstrels  are  ye — your  early  song 
Followed  the  Voice  Omnipotent, 
When  light  and  music  flowed  along 
Over  the  spangled  firmament. 

Ye  stars  !  if  aught  'tis  yours  to  know, 

Beyond  your  own  returnless  bourne, 

With  pity  have  ye  not  below 

Glanced  on  these  vales  where  mortals  mourn  ? 

O,  as  I  scan  your  nightly  march, 
Your  anthems  steal  upon  mine  ears  ; 
As  sprinkled  o'er  yon  glittering  arch, 
Ye  wake  the  music  of  the  spheres. 

JTis  fancy  ! — yet  the  empyrean  strains 
Impart  kind  gilead  to  my  breast ; 


WILLIAM  B.  TAPPAN.  15 

They  tell  of  brighter,  fairer  plains, 
Where  troubles  cease,  where  pilgrims  rest. 


MY  BOY  SLEEPING. 

O,  sweetly  thou  art  sleeping, 

And  thine  are  dreams  of  joy, 
Thy  mother  too  is  keeping 

Her  watch  o'er  thee,  my  boy  ! 
Thy  healthful  cheek  is  shaded 

With  hair  of  auburn  dye  ; 
The  last  dear  smile,  unfaded, 

Tells  artless  pleasure  nigh. 

And  long  unknown  to  sorrow, 

Loved  one  !  mayst  thou  repose, 
Be  thine  the  hope  of  morrow, 

And  thine  the  thornless  rose  : 
Life's  path— how  drear  and  lonely, 

Uncheered  by  love's  warm  glow ; 
A  parent's  rapture,  only 

A  parent's  heart  can  know. 

When  of  our  joys,  the  nearest 

Too  oft,  alas  !  depart, 
O,  blest  is  he  whose  dearest, 

Spring  only  from  the  heart ; 
The  tide  of  time  is  stealing, 

Each  hour,  some  bliss  away  ; 
But  these  dear  throbs  of  feeling 

Can  never  know  decay. 


16  THE  POEMS  OF 

Yet  while  I  hover  o'er  thee, 

Upon  thy  cheek,  the  tear 
Hath  fallen,  as  before  me, 

Life's  numerous  ills  appear ; 

0  Heaven!  avert,  or  lighten, 
Those  ills,  and  if  astray 

Thou  goest,  may  Hope's  star  brighten, 
And  guide  thee  on  the  way. 

O,  waken  from  thy  slumber, 

My  cherub  boy,  that  I 
May  every  beauty  number, 

That  glances  from  thy  eye  ; 
Beneath  those  fringes  darting, 

Are  beams  I  long  to  see  ; 
Those  ruby  lips,  disparting, 

Should  lisp  of  love  to  me. 

1  gaze — and  still  new  pleasures 

My  bosom  overflow ; 
O  tell  me,  best  of  treasures ! 

What  is  it  moves  me  so  ? 
Yet  hush  !  I  would  not  wake  thee, 

So  tranquil  is  thy  rest ; 
To  sleep  again  betake  thee, 

Thv  couch  a  mother's  breast. 


WILLIAM  B.  TAPPA>\  17 


THERE  IS  AN  HOUR  OF  PEACEFUL  REST. 

There  is  an  hour  of  peaceful  rest, 
To  mourning*  wanderers  given  ; 
There  is  a  joy  for  souls  distressed, 
A  balm  for  every  wounded  breast — 
'Tis  found  above,  in  heaven. 

There  is  a  soft,  a  downy  bed, 

Far  from  these  shades  of  even  5 
A  couch  for  weary  mortals  spread, 
Where  they  may  rest  the  aching-  head, 
And  find  repose  in  heaven. 

There  is  a  home  for  weary  souls, 

By  sin  and  sorrow  driven ; 
When  tossed  on  life's  tempestuous  shoals, 
Where  storms  arise  and  ocean  rolls, 

And  all  is  drear — 'tis  heaven. 

There  Faith  lifts  up  her  cheerful  eye, 

The  heart  no  longer  riven  ; 
And  views  the  tempest  passing"  by, 
The  evening  shadows  quickly  fly, 

And  all  serene  in  heaven. 

There  fragrant  flowers,  immortal,  bloom, 

And  joys  supreme  are  given  : 
There  rays  divine  disperse  the  gloom — 
Beyond  the  confines  of  the  tomb 

Appears  the  dawn  of  heaven. 
b  2 


16  THE  POEMS  OF 


FILIAL    LOVE. 


Filial  Devotion  !  dear  the  tie 
That  binds  the  parent  to  the  child  ; 
'Tis  from  affection's  rich  supply, 
The  streams  of  bliss  flow  undefiled ; 
"What  youthful  mind  loves  not  to  dwell 
On  deeds  which  care  parental  prove ? 
What  child  whose  bosom  doth  not  swell 
"With  gratitude  and  Filial  Love  ? 
If  such  there  be — from  haunts  of  men 
Let  the  unhallowed  wretch  withdraw, 
Fitter  to  guard  the  scorpion's  den, 
Or  wait  the  cruel  tiger's  law. 

How  tender  are  the  hourly  cares, 

That  with  the  mother's  love  entwine  ; 

How  holy  are  the  frequent  prayers 

The  father  pours  at  midnight's  shrine; 

Filial  Devotion  !   Gratitude  ! 

Emotions  to  the  bosom  dear — 

I  would  not  on  the  heart  intrude, 

That  never  g"ave  to  you  the  tear ; 

And  hast  thou,  O  my  spirit,  scanned 

"With  equal  zeal,  His  gnardian  power, 

"Whose  breath  supports,  whose  bounteous  hand, 

Unaided,  holds  existence'  hour  ? 

"While,  day  by  day,  the  full  supplies 
Thou  need'st,  are  given  thee  from  above  ; 


WILLIAM  B.  TAPPAX.  19 

Wilt  thou  not  humbly  recognise 

In  these,  a  watchful  Father's  love  ■ 

Recipient  of  a  liberal  store, 

The  pensioner  of  Mercy's  throne, 

Wilt  thou  not  contritely  adore 

The  Source  of  life  and  love  alone  ? 

Great  Parent !  while  I  intercede 

For  daily  bread  to  strengthen  me, 

May  I,  with  holy  fervour,  plead 

Thy  quickening'  grace  to  worship  Thee, 


OXE  HUNDRED  YEARS  FROM  NOW. 

My  heart  is  desolate  and  sad,— 
Others  may  dream,  yet  unto  me 
The  visions  that  my  boyhood  had, 
Are  lost  in  dull  reality ; 
I  sometimes  wish  my  soul  were  not 
By  sorrow  stern,  compelled  to  bow ; 
Yet  wherefore  ?  'twill  be  all  forgot 
One  Hundred  Years  from  Now. 

The  friends  I  had,  the  hungry  tomb 
Hath  stolen  away,  or,  bitterer  still, 
Coldness  hath  nipped  their  love  in  bloom, 
And  kindly  thoughts  are  turned  to  ill, 
'Tis  sad  to  mourn  the  buried  friend, 
Most  sad  to  meet  the  altered  brow ; 
Yet  what  of  this  ! — all  care  will  end 
One  Hundred  Years  from  Now. 


20  THE  POEMS  OF 

Sorrow  with  me  hath  done  its  worst ; 
She  whom  I  love — her  face  is  wan, — 
Yea,  I  have  given  to  the  dust 
The  babe  my  bosom  doated  on  : 
Yet,  as  upon  its  clay-cold  bed 
We  wept,  sweet  voices  whispered,  how 
Gladly  we'll  meet,  long  ere  hath  fled 
One  Hundred  Years  from  Now. 

'Tis  Nature's  law — then  why  repine 
That  man  should  tread  a  thorny  way  ? 
The  hopes  that  now  thus  darkly  shine, 
Shall  yet  break  out  to  perfect  Day  ; 
And  O,  my  spirit !  this  thy  shield 
Shall  be,  when  bade  by  griefs  to  bow — 
The  mystery  will  be  revealed 
One  Hundred  Years  from  Now. 


ODE  FOR   THE   FIFTIETH  ANNIVERSARY  OF  THE 
BATTLE  OF  BUNKER'S  HILL. 

Where  rest  the  mighty  Slain, 

'Neath  monument  or  mound, 
On  teeming  hill  or  plain, 

That  spot  is  holy  ground  : 
Sons  of  the  Warrior  !  rear 

The  obelisk  on  high  ; 
Sons  of  the  Brave  !  revere 

The  deeds  that  never  die. 


WILLIAM  B.  TAPPAN.  21 

Bid  ye  the  column  tell 

That  on  this  place  of  graves, 
The  men  of  valour  fell, 

Who  scorned  to  live  as  slaves  : 
God — whose  sublime  decree, 

Speaks  elements  to  rest, 
Gave  victory  to  the  free, 

And  safety  to  the  oppressed. 

Ghosts  of  the  glorious  dead ! 

Our  venerated  sires ! 
Your  offspring  bless,  and  shed 

On  them  your  sacred  fires  : 
At  this  auspicious  hour, 

On  this  devoted  spot, 
Glory,  we  feel  thy  power — 

What  bosom  owns  it  not ! 

Rear  ye  the  lettered  Rock  ! — 

What  though  it  pass  away, 
Though  marble  ne'er  can  mock 

Resistless  Time's  decay, 
The  Patriot's  deed  is  known 

To  archives  of  the  sky ; 
Emblazoned  on  the  throne, 

The  record  cannot  die. 


22  THE  POEMS  OF 


PRAYER  WRITTEN   DURING  A  PESTILENCE. 

Oh  Thou  Unseen,  Almighty  God  ! 

That  rul'st  in  power  alone  ; 
Afflicted  by  thy  righteous  rod, 

We  come  before  the  throne. 

And  thou  wilt  never  bid  "  depart" — 

When  our  frail  offerings  rise  5 
For  Thou  hast  said,  the  broken  heart 

Is  thy  own  sacrifice. 

With  earnest  tears  we  intercede 

For  thy  paternal  care  ; 
And,  self-abased,  do  humbly  plead 

In  penitential  prayer. 

Our  city  weeps  in  lowly  dust, 

Bowed  by  the  hand  Divine  ; 
And  still  she  owns  thy  dealings  just, 

For  judgment,  Lord,  is  thine. 

Yet  while  Thou  rid'st  in  frowning  mien, 

And  hold'st  the  balance  true, 
Oh  God  !  while  thy  dread  scourge  is  seen, 

Let  pity  triumph  too. 

Though  justice  is  thy  diadem, 

And  wrath  is  thine  alone, 
Yet  Mercy  shines,  the  brightest  gem 

Around  thy  glorious  throne. 


WILLIAM  B.  TAPPAN.  23 


THERE  IS  A  HARP. 

There  is  a  harp  whose  thrilling  sound 
Is  heard  among*  the  choirs  above  ; 
'Mid  the  blue  arch  its  notes  resound, 
And  heaven  repeats  the  strains  of  love. 

'Tis  when  some  spirit  from  these  spheres, 
On  viewless  pinions  wing's  its  way, 
And  pure,  before  the  throne  appears, 
In  robes  of  everlasting*  day. 

Hark  !  the  glad  shout  of  sacred  j  oy. 
In  choral  numbers  loud  and  long  : 
The  angelic  hosts  their  harps  employ, 
The  cherub  wakes  his  noblest  song. 


SIXTEEN. 

Lady  !  while  gaily  ope's  on  you 
The  world's  alluring  witching  smile  ; 
While  flowers  of  every  form  and  hue 
Spring  forth,  your  pathway  to  beguile, — 
O  Lady,  in  the  bursting  dawn 
Of  hope,  may  real  bliss  be  seen, 
And  bland  contentment  gild  your  morn, 
And  peace  be  yours  at  fond  Sixteen. 


24  THE  POEMS  OF 

Life's  but  a  flower,  how  frail  the  bloom  ! 
It  charms  without,  within  is  there 
The  worm  that's  nourished  to  consume, 
The  foe  of  beauty,  baneful  Care  : 
Far  from  your  bosom  be  the  cares 
That  lurk  with  cold  forbidding  mien, 
And,  O  kind  Heaven!  avert  the  snares 
That  folly  spreads  for  gay  Sixteen. 

Though  cloudless  suns  for  thee  may  rise, 
And  bright  the  joys  that  for  thee  shine, 
O  who  may  tell  these  beauteous  skies, 
These  cloudless  suns  shall  long  be  thine  ? 
Yet  long  may  these  your  day  illume, 
And  may  no  storm,  with  rigour  keen, 
Assail  the  flower  that  loves  to  bloom 
On  the  fair  cheek  of  sweet  Sixteen. 

The  fairy  form  must  lose  its  grace, 
The  speaking  eye  must  know  decay, 
Time  will  each  youthful  charm  efface, 
As  evening's  robe  obscures  the  day  ; 
Yet  while  meek  candour  loves  to  dwell 
Those  lips  upon,  and  truth  is  seen, 
Lady,  these  graces  long  shall  tell 
The  fadeless  charms  of  bright  Sixteen. 

Affection  cheers  our  pathway  wild, 
Yet  oft  it  dies,  alas  !  how  soon, — 
The  star  that  on  Love's  morning  smiled, 
Shines  coldly  on  its  dying  noon  ; 


WILLIAM  B.  TAPPAN.  25 

Yet  Lady  !  while  the  chaste  caress 

Of  friendship,  soothes  life's  sorrows  keen, 

Still  may  affection  richly  bless 

Your  path,  when  fled  is  gay  Sixteen. 


THE  DEPARTED. 

I  see  thee  not,  my  brother  !  thou  art  far 
From  me,  removed  to  thy  empyrion — 
Thou  dwellest  in  the  chambers  of  the  star ; 
Inhabitant  of  yon  returnless  bourne, 
"Where  mortality  comes  not — yet  in  sleep 
I  saw  thee.     'Twas  a  vision  of  the  night, 
When  fancy,  roused,  no  more  would  vigils  keep, 
When  all  within  was  holy,  calm  and  bright. 
I  saw  thee  as  thou  wast.    Though  many  a  flower 
Of  summer  birth  has  flourished  on  thy  bed — 
Though  many  a  cold  and  wintry  blast  has  swept 
The  spot  where  thou  hast  pillowed  thy  head — 
The  spot  where  I  in  boyhood's  laughing  hour, 
Forgot  my  mirth  and  o'er  thy  memory  wept  j 
My  brother  !  I  saw  thee,  and  thou  didst  seem 
Like  nought  of  earth — a  shadowy,  pleasing  dream- 
A  voiceless  vision,  beckoning  me  away 
To  skiey  fields,  where  love's  pure  fountain  flows 
'Mid  landscapes,  sunned  by  an  unclouded  day, 
Where  pilgrims  dwell — the  weary  find  repose. 
Methought  'twas  by  a  river's  brink  we  walked  : 
How  touching  was  night's  silence  !  Echo  talked 
Along  the  breezes,  on  the  eddying  air 


26  THE  P0E3IS  OF 

Came  dying  murmurs  ; — music,  too,  was  there, 
Music  unheard,  yet  felt,  the  harmony 
That  soothes  the  spirit  in  the  parting"  hour, 
That  hails  the  disembodied  to  their  bower. 
'Twas  invitation  all; — I  strove  to  follow  thee — 
My  brother  !  I  sought  again  thy  speaking  eye, 
But  thou  wast  gone;  there  was  nought  left  with  me; 
The  stars  shone  coldly  in  the  clear  blue  sky, 
The  lonely  night-wind,  murmuring,  passed  by. 


THE  MATERNAL  PRAYER  MEETING. 

They've  met,  thou  seest,  this  is  where 

They  always  love  to  meet ; 
The  chosen  room,   well  known  to  prayer, 

The  Mother's  mercy  seat; 
They've  met — in  beauteous  eyes,  the  tear 

Of  stirring  thought  is  dim  ; 
For  each,  this  hour,  her  sweet  ones  here, 

Leads  up  in  prayer  to  Hix. 

Is't  not  a  holy  place  ■ — look  round — 

Unto  these  bosoms  given, 
Are  hopes,  not  by  the  wide  world  bound, 

They  look  away  to  heaven ; 
And  think  not  Heaven,  as  side  by  side, 

Are  child  and  mother  bowed — 
Between  itself  and  this  deep  tide 

Of  prayer,  hath  flung  a  cloud. 


WILLIAM  B.  TAPPAN.  27 

Oh  no  !  if  ever  broken  speech 

May  audience  find  above, 
'Tis  when  the  mother's  heart  would  reach 

Down  blessings  for  its  love  ; 
And  though  in  tears  each  suppliant  long 

May  tarry  near  the  throne, 
She  knows  that  here  the  faith  is  strong 

That  is  so  faint  alone. 

And  firm  the  faltering  step,  for  then 

The  altar-place  is  trod  5 
And  rises  timid  woman,  when 

She  gives  her  child  to  God  ; 
Yet  not  for  self  is  given  the  sigh, 

The  earnest  tear  is  shed  ; 
But  that  rich  mercies  from  on  high 

May  fall  upon  his  head, 

Oh  woman  !  to  whose  forming  touch 

Is  given  the  plastic  mind, 
Thou  need' st  the  frequent  prayer,  for  much     ► 

Hath  heaven  to  thee  consigned  ; 
Still  in  thy  weakness  there  is  power 

Before  thy  King  to  stand  5 
AVith  him  there  is  a  hearing  hour, 

A  sceptre  in  his  hand. 

'Tis  wise,   while  fountains  fail  below, 

To  lead  those  thou  dost  love, 
Unto  the  streams  that  brightly  flow 

In  fairer  worlds  above  ; 


28  THE  POEMS  OF 

To  furnish,  ere  'tis  thine  to  fall, 
These  dear  ones  for  the  strife  ; 

And  oh,  to  see  them  peril  all 
For  crowns  of  endless  life  ! 


CHRIST  REJECTED. 

The  dawn  hath  broke  on  Solyma, 

Yet  in  her  streets  sits  wan  despair ; 
The  temple  greets  the  early  ray, 

The  voice  of  gladness  is  not  there  ; 
Gone  forth  is  the  accursed  decree, 

Blush  Sun  !  and  hide  each  starry  gem  ! 
Your  Maker  is  condemned,  and  He 

Wears  now  the  thorny  diadem. 

Did  not  from  yonder  battlement 

The  gathered  angels  bend  and  weep, 
When  crushed  with  toil,  with  sorrow  spent, 

Immanuel  trod  the  painful  steep  ? 
Was  there  not  anguish  known  above — 

Say,  ye  !  that  knelt  before  the  throne, 
When  He  whose  every  throb  was  love, 

By  man  rejected,  wept  alone  ? 

O,  suffering  Saviour  !  let  me  be 

Patient,  when  crowding  cares  invade  ; 

Resigned,  when  earthly  blessings  flee, 
And  grateful  while  enjoyments  fade  : 


WILLIAM   B.  TAPPAX.  29 

Thou  wast  rejected  ! — Son  of  God  ! 

Near  to  the  Highest  is  thy  seat ; 
'Tis  mine  to  meet  the  stormy  flood, 

Give  me  a  place  beneath  thy  feet. 


CHRIST  RISEX. 

Darkly  o'er  thee,  Palestine  ! 

Hang's  the  mystic  veil  of  night : 
Land  of  Shinar,  grief  is  thine, 

Quenched  the  glory  of  thy  light, — 
Where  is  now  the  promise  given 

To  thy  sires  of  ancient  day  ? 
Where,   O  where,  the  lamp  of  heaven, 

To  direct  the  wanderer's  way  ? 

Ye  who,  favoured,  saw  Hix,  tell 

Of  his  mien,  beyond  compare  ; 
Ye  who  marked  Him  when  he  fell, 

Say,  was  not  the  Godhead  there  ? 
Yet  he  writhed  beneath  the  rod — 

Anguish  sat  upon  his  brow — 
Men  have  triumphed  in  his  blood, 

And  the  marble  holds  him  now. 

Wherefore  then  the  golden  beam, 
Springing  up  the  eastern  sky  ; 

Bright,  yet  soft  as  morning's  dream, 
When  night's  empire  passes  by  } 
c  2 


30  THE  POEMS  OF 

Wherefore  then  the  choral  hymn, 
Floating*  on  the  wavy  air — 

Why  hath  ope'd  the  marble  tomb  ? 
Jesus  sleeps  no  longer  there  ! 

He  hath  risen  ! — crushed  his  power — 

Lo,  in  dust  the  arch-fiend  lies ; 
He  hath  risen  ! — glorious  hour  ! 

We  who  sleep  in  him  shall  rise  ; 
Welcome  death  !  each  sorrow  closing1, 

Now  thy  features  smiles  do  wear ; 
Welcome  grave  !  to  flesh  reposing*, 

jEsrs  is  the  victor  there. 


WHY  SHOULD  WE  SIGH. 

Why  should  we  sigh  when  Fancy's  dream, 

The  ray  that  shone  'mid  youthful  tears, 
Departing,  leaves  no  kindly  gleam, 

To  cheer  the  lonely  waste  of  years  ? 
Why  should  we  sigh  ? — The  fairy  charm 

That  bound  each  sense  in  folly's  chain 
Is  broke,  and  Reason,  clear  and  calm, 

Resumes  her  holy  rights  again. 

Why  should  we  sigh  that  earth  no  more 
Claims  the  devotion  once  approved  ? 

That  joys  endeared,  with  us  are  o'er, 
And  gone  are  those  these  hearts  have  loved  } 


WILLIAM  B.  TAPPAN.  31 

Why  should  we  sigh  ? — Unfading  bliss 
Survives  the  narrow  grasp  of  time  ; 

And  those  that  asked  our  tears  in  this, 
Shall  render  smiles  in  yonder  clime. 


WARRIORS  OF  THE  REVOLUTION. 

Mark  ye  the  men  of  other  days! 

The  true,  the  tried  of  yore, 
Even  now  they  come  on  Fancy's  gaze, 

As  in  might  they  came  before  ; 
They  come — aye,  'tis  a  gallant  show, — 

These  died  not  for  a  name  \ 
Not  to  pluck  garlands  from  the  foe, 

Or  trumpet-songs  from  fame. 

In  proud  array  their  ranks  again 

Start  from  the  heaving  sod, 
They  marshal  on  the  embattled  plain, 

Their  warrior  feet  once  trod ; 
The  sainted,  the  immortal  band, 

Forever  Freedom's  boast, — 
On  Recollection's  mount  they  stand, 

A  glorious,  god-like  host. 

Clothed  in  the  perils  of  that  day, 
And  wounds  no  longer  dumb, 

With  honours  torn  from  deadly  fray, 
The  ghosts — they  come !  they  come ! 


32  THE  P0E3IS  OF 

Each  phantom-fing-er  points  afar 

To  many  a  blood-dyed  field ; 
Behold  their  wounds!  in  every  scar 

Behold  a  nation's  shield  ! 

They  come,  exalted  from  the  crowd 

Of  all  the  ignoble  dead  5 
To  tell  of  these  whom  grief  hath  bowed. 

Who  bled  as  they  have  bled ; 
In  the  light  of  every  lofty  deed, 

Their  shadows  rise  to  view  ; 
They  come  from  trophied  tombs  to  plead 

For  these — the  lingering  few. 

The  breeze  that  waves  their  withered  hairs 

Is  stirred  not  with  their  breath  ; 
Voiceless — yet  deep  that  speech,  for  theirs 

Is  eloquence  of  death  : 
Stretch  out  the  strong,  the  succouring  arm 

For  these,  the  faithful  Brave  ; 
The  weary-worn — their  passage  calm 

Down  to  the  peaceful  grave  ! 


WILLIAM  B.  TAPPAX.  33 


REV.  JOHN  SU3I3IERFIELD. 

I  saw  the  Evangelist  of  God  ascend 

The  holy  place.     He  stood  in  the  beauty 

Of  meekness. — He  spake,  and  on  my  heart 

Fell  accents  glowing  with  the  prophet's  fire. 

I  heard  thee,  mighty  one  !  and  was  afraid, 

Yea,  trembling,  listened  $  for  methought  no  voice 

Of  mortal  mould  could  thrill  my  bosom  thus. 

O,  sweet  as  anger's  music  were  the  tones 

That  breathed  their  gilead  on  the  wounded  heart; 

Strengthened  the  weary, — bade  the  broken  come 

To  Siloa's  fountain  and  in  faith  be  whole. 

I  wept  o'er  blighted  hopes — but  thou  didst  draw, 

A  willing  captive,  my  admiring  soul 

With  thee,  to  brighter  regions,  where  the  dream 

Of  glad  fruition  lives,  nor  is  unreal. 

I  feared  Death — but  thou  didst  deck  the  foe 

In  lovely  garb  ;  with  softest  beauty  clad, 

I  saw  him  beckoning  to  the  narrow  house 

Of  rest,  where  spicy  odours  balm  the  air, 

And  resurrection's  halo  crowns  the  dead. 

God  called  thee,  favoured  one  !  Thy  diadem 

Is  wreathed  of  gentleness,  and  thick  bestrown 

With  pearls  of  nature/s  forming — they  are  tears, 

Yea,  tears  of  rapture,  holy,  and  untold. 


34  THE  P0E3IS  OF 


WHEN  DEATH  SHALL  LAY. 

When  death  shall  lay  this  bosom  low, 
And  every  murmur  hush  to  sleep, 

When  those  that  give  affection  now, 
Shall  o'er  affection's  memory  weep — 

I  would  not,  when  life's  spark  has  flown, 
That  strangers  should  receive  the  sigh  ; 

I  would  not  that  a  hand  unknown, 

Should,  reckless,  close  the  slumbering  eye  ; 

But,   on  some  throbbing  breast  reclined, 

That  beat  alone  to  love  and  me  ; 
Each  parting  pang  subdued,  how  kind, 

How  peaceful  would  my  exit  be! 

I  would  not  that  this  lowly  head 

Should  pillow,  cold,  on  foreign  clay ; 

I  would  not  that  my  grassy  bed 

Should  be  from  home  and  love  away  : 

But,  in  my  native  village  ground, 
Near  kindred  dust,  these  relics  laid  : 

How  calm  my  slumbers,  how  profound, 
Beneath  the  old  tree's  sombre  shade! 


WILLIAM  B.  TAPPAN.  35 

CONFLAGRATION  OF  THE  ORPHAN  ASYLUM 

AT  PHILADELPHIA,    JAX.   24,    1822. 

'Twas  midnight,  and  the  northern  blast  rode  high  j 
Nature  lay  torpid  'neath  the  iron  power 
Of  chill  midwinter.     From  the  clear  cold  sky, 
The  stars  shed  quickened  lustre  ;  'twas  the  hour 
Of  brooding  silence,  heaviness  and  death ; 

Hushed  was  the  Orphan's  prayer, 

And  hushed  the  holy  hymn. 

Say,  is  it  real — or  but  the  unquiet  breath 
Of  fancy,  whispering  to  the  startled  ear  f 

0  God  of  Mercy  !  is  there  none  to  save  ? 
No  powerful  arm  of  blest  protection  here  ; 
No  kindly  refuge  from  the  burning  grave  ? 

'Twas  morning — and  the  smouldering,   blackened 

pile, 
The  throb  of  agony,  the  burst  of  woe^ 
The  eye  of  eloquence,  the  Orphan's  tale, 
Spoke  the  proud  triumph  of  the  midnight  foe. 

1  wept,  and  long  I  wept ;  yet  not  for  those 
Dear  innocents — who  fed  the  funeral  pyre  ; 

For  them,  escaped  from  earth  and  earth-born  woes, 
Their  spirits  wafted  on  one  car  of  fire, 
Why  should  I  weep  ?  No,  'twas  the  shivering  child 
The  living  wretch,  that  claimed  the  pitying  tear. 
When  lo,  a  form  I  saw,  of  aspect  mild, 


36  THE  POEMS  OF 

Fair  Charity  amid  the  throng  appear  ! 
Her  magic  voice  bade  every  heart  attend, 
Her  influence,  sweet,  each  feeling-  bosom  knew, 
And  soon  the  helpless  Orphan  found  a  friend, 
And  eyes  unknown  to  weep  were  moist  with  Pity's 
dew : 

Again  was  heard  the  Orphan's  prayer, 

Again  the  holy  hymn. 


I  knew  the  boy,  and  he  was  such  an  one 

As  we  can  dearly  love,  nor  question  why  ; 

Of  fragile  form,  yet  fair,  methinks  the  sun 

Ne'er  shone  upon  a  lovelier,  his  eye 

Sparkled  with  hope  and  innocence,  delight 

Dwelt  in  his  motions,  every  thought  was  joy  5 

Gentle  in  heart,  attractive  to  the  sight, 

Death  !  how  could'st  thou  such  comeliness  destroy? 

I  saw  him  flushed  with  health,  the  opening  rose 
Was  not  more  sweet,  his  cheek  had  stolen  its  hue — 
On  his  fair  brow  sat  childhood's  galm  repose  ; 
His  budding  lip,  surcharged  with  freshest  dew, 
Spake  promise  of  long  days,  we  fondly  said 
These  charms  will  flourish — many  a  genial  spring 
Invigorating,  will  kind  influence  shed, 
Ripening  the  plant,  and  full  perfection  bring. 


WILLIAM  B.  TAPPAN.  37 

I  saw  him  in  the  agonizing  hour, 

When  pain  was  struggling*  with  its  victim,  there 

Was  loveliness  remaining,  though  the  power 

Of  fell  disease,  had  blighted  what  was  fair  5 

He  knew  me  not, — already  had  he  flown 

In  thought,  to  his  empyrean,  and  ere 

Some  cherub  called,  * f  away ! "  he  sought  the  throne  ; 

What  should  the  traveller  know  of  sorrow  here  ? 

I  saw  him, — but  the  last  long  strife  was  o'er  ! 
'Twas  hard,  for  Death  had  lingered  with  the  blow, 
Reluctant,  seeming  : — pale  he  was,  but  more 
Of  beauty  have  I  never  seen;  the  foe, 
Unwilling  to  deface  so  sweet  a  germ, 
Had  left  heaven's  impress  on  the  sleeping  clay, — 
There  reigned,  sublime,  eternity's  deep  calm, 
Death  sat,  a  smiling  victor,  on  his  prey. 


GETHSEMANE. 

'Tis  midnight,  and  on  Olive's  brow 
The  star  is  dimmed  that  lately  shone  j 

'Tis  midnight;  in  the  garden  now, 
The  suffering  Saviour  prays  alone. 

'Tis  midnight,  and  from  all  removed, 
Immanuel  wrestles,  lone,  with  fears; 

E'en  the  disciple  that  he  loved, 

Heeds  not  his  Master's  grief  and  tears. 

D 


38  THE  POEMS  OF 

'Tis  midnight,  and  for  other's  guilt 
The  Man  of  Sorrows  weeps  in  blood  ? 

Yet  he  that  hath  in  anguish  knelt, 
Is  not  forsaken  by  his  God: 

'Tis  midnight,  from  the  heavenly  plains, 
Is  borne  the  song  that  angels  know  ; 

Unheard  by  mortals  are  the  strains 
That  sweetly  sooth  the  Saviour's  wo. 


THE  SLAVEHOLDER  S  THRONE. 

The  slaveholder's  throne  is  the  African's  grave, 
Thou  hast  marked  it  on  Caribbee's  shore! 

He  frowns,  and  the  soil  of  the  generous  and  brave, 
Is  steeped  with  the  innocents'  gore. 

On  those  beauteous  isles,  pearly  gems  of  the  deep, 

All  of  nature  is  lovely  and  fair ; 
'Tis  man,  godlike  man,  bids  his  fellow  to  weep, 

His  brother  casts  out  to  despair. 

Could  your  griefs,  wretched  slaves!  could  your  in- 
juries speak, 
O,  God!  what  a  tale  to  unfold; 
Blush,  blush,  guilty  Europe!  shroud,  manhood,  thy 
cheek, 
Weep,  weep  for  the  passion  of  gold. 


WILLIAM  B.  TAPPAN.  39 

Yet  that  here  where  our  symbol  the  wild  eagle,  flies, 
O  shame !  writhes  the  African's  soul — 

That  on  fields  bought  by  freedom,  an  outcast  he  dies, 
Time !  veil  it — 'twill  darken  thy  scroll. 

Why  smoke  your  proud  summits,  ye  hills  of  the 

slain  ? 
In  days  of  the  battle,  why  fell 
The  thousands,   whose  bones  whitened  valley  and 

plain, 
When  the  war-cry  was  slavery's  knell ) 

Why  laud  we,  exulting,  the  Festival  Day  ? 

And  why  to  the  glorious  Dead 
Do  our  hearts  the  oblation  of  gratitude  pay, 

As  on  their  cold  ashes  we  tread  ? 

My  country!  that  plightedst  to  freedom  thy  troth, 

Redeem  it! — thou  art  not  yet  free  ; 
On  Eternity's  page  thou  recordedst  thine  oath, 

'Tis  broken!  there's  Slavery  with  thee. 


40  THE  POEMS  OF 


YOU  ASKED,  I  REMEMBER. 

You  asked,  I  remember,  if  those  that  have  flown 
To  the  regions  of  sunshine,   would  visit  again 
The  scenes  of  past  grief,  to  mortality  known, 
The  dream  of  anxiety,  chequered  with  pain? 

From  courts  of  the  skies  should  the  spotless  e'er 

bend, 
And  delights,  once  endeared,  uinmpassioned  descry; 
Is  there  aught  that  could  bid  the  wrapt  spirit  descend, 
Or  a  wish  rise  unbidden,  to  waken  the  sigh  ? 

If  so,   'tis  the  thought  of  that  innocent  bliss, 
The  sun-ray,   expanding  affection's  young  flower, 
Which,  caught  from  yon  region,  beams  brightly  on 

this, 
And  to  Time  lends  the  hue  of  Eternity's  hour. 

If  so,  'tis  remembrance  of  love's  plighted  vow, 
The  sweets  of  communion,   once  ardent  and  true  ; 
And  the  wish  that  those  veiled  in  mortality  now, 
Should  soar  disembodied,  and  friendship  renew. 


WILLIAM   B.   TAPPAX.  41 


LOVE. 

Yes,  life  is  but  a  waste, 
A  cheerless  pathway,  where 
No  healthy  fruit  allures  the  taste, 
No  flowerets  balm  the  air, 

If  Love 
The  wild  rose,  ne'er  luxuriates  there. 

Love  is  a  guide,  when  lorn 
The  wanderer  is  astray, 
'Mid  dangers,  and  no  star  of  dawn 
To  smile  upon  his  way; 

'Tis  Love 
Burns  on  the  cloud,  the  gem  of  day  ! 

Along  affliction's  coast, 
Hard  by  de sp air's  grim  shoal, 
She  shines  on  him,  the  tempest-tost, 
The  light-house  of  the  soul ; 
And  guides 
Where  storms  repose,  no  oceans  roll. 

O  thou  Inspirer  !  who 

Sang  to  my  infancy, 

And  half  life's  rugged  journey  through 

Hast  still  attended  me, 

I  consecrate 
My  all  to  thee,  to  onlv  thee  ! 
d2 


42  THE  POEMS  OF 

When  pleasure's  mellow  note 
Allured  me  to  her  bowers, 
Thou  bad'st  kind  dreams  of  fancy  float 
Along*  the  white -wing' d  hours; 

Thy  smile 
Did  strew  existence'  path  with  flowers. 

The  lightning  crossed  my  way, 
Thou  earnest  and  in  its  scathe, 
I  but  discerned  the  tempered  ray 
Of  Love,  around  my  path, — 
A  pillar  given 
When  all  was  tempest,  night  and  wrath. 

Be  nigh  at  the  dread  hour 

Of  nature's  utmost  need, 

When  unknown  shadowy  worlds  appear, 

And  unreal  scenes  recede. 

O  then  the  spirit  cheer, 
And  bid  it  on  its  passage  speed  ! 


AMEEICAN  SLAVERY. 

Lift  ye  my  country's  banner  high, 
And  fling  abroad  its  gorgeous  sheen  ; 
Unroll  its  stripes  upon  the  sky, 
And  let  its  lovely  stars  be  seen. 

Blood,  blood,  is  on  its  spangled  fold, 
Yet  from  the  battle  comes  it  not ; 


WILLIAM  B.  TAPPAN.  43 

God  !  all  the  seas  thy  channels  hold, 
Cannot  wash  out  the  guilty  spot. 

These  glorious  stars  and  stripes  that  led 
Our  lion-hearted  fathers  on, 
Vailed  only  to  the  honoured  dead — 
Beaming  where  fields  and  fame  were  won: 

These  symbols  that  to  kings  could  tell 
Our  young  republic's  rising  name, 
And  speak  to  falling  realms  the  knell 
Of  glory  past,  of  future  shame : 

Dishonoured  shall  they  be  by  hands, 
On  which  a  sacrament  doth  lie  ? 
The  light  that  heralded  to  lands 
Immortal  glory — must  it  die  ? 

No  !  let  the  earthquake-utterance  be 
From  thousand  swelling  hearts — not  so  ! 
And  let  one  voice  from  land  and  sea, 
Return  indignant  answer — xo  ! 

Up,  then !  determine,  dare  and  do, 
What  justice  claims,  what  freemen  may ; 
What  frowning  heaven  demands  of  you, 
AVhile  yet  its  muttering  thunders  stay  ; 

That  thou,  forever  from  this  soil 
Bid  Slavery's  withering  blight  depart ; 
And  to  the  wretch  restore  the  spoil, 
Though  thou  may'st  not  the  broken  heart ; 


44  THE  POEMS  OF 

That  thou  thy  brother  from  the  dust 
Lift  up,  and  speak  his  spirit  free! 
That  millions  whom  thy  crime  hath  curst, 
May  blessing's  plead  on  thine  and  thee. 

Then  to  the  universe  wide  spread 
Thy  glorious  stars,  without  a  stain  ; 
Bend  from  your  skies,  illustrious  dead  ! 
The  world  ye  won  is  free  again. 


WEEP  NOT. 

Weep  not,  when  sad  distress  is  nigh, 
When  bliss  and  transient  pleasures  fly  $ 
When  earthly  blessings  droop  and  fade, 
When  all  is  wrapt  in  sorrow's  shade. 

Weep  not,  when  death  with  cruel  dart, 
Pierces  some  idol  of  the  heart  $ 
When  hallowed  friendship  decks  the  bier, 
When  tender  love  would  claim  the  tear. 

Weep  not,  for  as  the  morning  cloud, 
Doth  nature's  radiant  smile  enshroud ; 
But  scatters  soon ; — these  gloomy  woes, 
Shall  flee,  and  all  be  cairn  repose. 

Weep  not,  for  as  the  floweret  fair, 
Is  crushed  with  winter's  blighting  air  j 


WILLIAM  B.  TAPPAN.  45 

Pressed  rudely  down,  it  droops  its  head, 
And  all  its  varied  hues  are  fled: 

With  opening'  spring  its  bloom  revives  ; 
Again  the  beauteous  floweret  lives; 
Thus,  when  life's  wintry  storms  are  o'er, 
The  friend  revives,  to  die  no  more. 


UZZAH: 

FROM  THE  SECOXD  BOOK  OF  SAMUEL. 

His  war-tent  in  Rephaim  the  godless  hath  spread, 
That  valley  is  strown  with  the  bones  of  the  dead  ; 
Philistia  !  the  arm  of  the  Strong  was  on  thee, 
When  His  whisperings  were  heard  in  the  mulberry- 
tree  ; 
And  the  king  hath  arisen  with  men  of  the  sword, 
And  nobles  to  bring  up  the  ark  of  the  Lord, 
Even  Him,   God  of  triumphs,  Jehovah  by  name, 
Whose  pavilion  looks  out  from  the  Cherubim's  flame, 

Rejoice  !  for  the  ark  hath  gone  up  with  a  shout, 
With  glory  and  beauty  'tis  compass'd  about; 
To  the  song  of  the  minstrel  the  timbrel  hath  rung, 
And  the  cloud  of  His  love  is  with  Israel  among ; 
Sound  cymbal !  sound  cornet!  proclaim  Jubilee, 
Thy  ark,  thy  salvation,  abideth  with  thee  ; 
Thou,  Israel !  no  longer  art  scattered  abroad, 
With  psaltery  and  anthem  give  praise  unto  GocL 


46  THE  POEMS  OF 

Why  lingers  the  Covenant  at  yon  threshing  floor — 
And  whence  is  the  trembling  where  Levites  adore ? 
Hath  God,  in  his  anger,  gone  up  from  his  own  ? 
Hasten,  men  !   and  in  meekness  bow  down  at  his 

throne ; 
The  ark  of  his  worship  by  crime  is  profaned, 
With  presumption  the  garment  of  Israel  is  stained  ; 
That  Symbol  sought  he  to  uphold  in  his  pride 5 — 
God  accepted  him  not — he  hath  touched  it  and  died! 


TO  THE  NORTH  STAR. 

Bbight  star  !  while  thou  thy  lonely  way 

Pursuest  in  yon  expanse  of  blue, 
Thy  gem-like  form  and  steady  ray 

Attract  the  heedless  peasant's  view, 
And  his,  whose  thoughts  to  unknown  regions  stray. 

Full  oft  the  wanderer,  fortune's  child, 
Benighted,  sad,   and  doomed  to  roam, 

Beholds  with  joy  thy  aspect  mild, 
That  tells  of  happiness  and  home, 

And  guides  him  onward  'mid  the  trackless  wild. 

Oft,  too,  the  sea-boy  marks  thy  beam, 
When  ocean  sleeps  in  peaceful  calm  ; 

While  o'er  its  breast  thy  gentle  gleam 
Plays  wanton,   and  with  sacred  charm 

Lulls  the  wrapt  soul  in  fancy's  pleasing  dream. 


WILLIAM  B.  TAPPAN.  47 

And  oft,  sweet  star  !  at  even  tide$ 

When  all  around  is  hushed  to  rest, 
My  thoughts  ascend,   and  pensive  glide 

To  distant  climes  and  regions  blest, 
Where  wo-worn  care  and  grief  would  gladly  hide. 

And  fancy  whispers  in  mine  ear, 

That  those  who  once  were  here  beloved, 

To  friendship  and  affection  dear, 

Now  from  this  fleeting  scene  removed, 

Repose,  bright  star,  in  thy  ethereal  sphere, 


CHARLES  CARROLL,  OF  CARROLLTON ; 

THE    ONLY    SURVIVOR    OF  THE  SIGNERS  TO  THE  DECLA- 
RATION OF  AMERICAN  INDEPENDENCE. 

The  few — the  tried — O,  where  are  they, 

Once  eager  at  their  country's  call — 
That  mightiest  grew  in  danger's  day, 

That  suffered,  strove  and  perilled  all  ? 

Ah,  see !  from  their  mysterious  clime, 

The  sainted  shades — they  come !  they  come ! 

They're  silent  as  the  womb  of  time, 
Yet  at  that  silence  men  are  dumb 

They  speak  in  every  lofty  deed 

Conceived,  achieved,  for  freedom's  sake  ; 
When  rousing  at  a  people's  need, 

The  servile  chain  they  dared  to  break. 


48  THE  F0E3IS  OF 

Behold  them  now — behold  them  here  ! 

They  live  in  every  generous  breast, 
In  Plenty's  smile  and  in  the  tear 

That  gems  the  memory  of  the  Blessed. 

But  who  is  Tie — alone — the  last 3 
Go  ye  and  mark  the  Veteran  well  \ 

Aye,  gaze  upon  the  mighty  past, 
And  to  the  heart  its  tidings  tell. 

'Tis  great  to  view! — a  link  he  seems 
Connecting  yon  dim  world  with  ours  ; 

And  soothing  as  the  ray  that  gleams 
On  Autumn's  latest,  loveliest  flowers. 

Relic  sublime,  he  lingers  yet, 

But  soon  to  join  that  brother-band  : 

Aye,  soon — too  soon,  the  sun  is  set 
Of  thy  last  saviour,  native  land!     ' 

The  last — already  o'er  his  head 

The  light  of  unborn  days  hath  shone  j 

Between  the  living  and  the  dead, 
Wrapt  in  his  years  he  stands  alone. 
1826. 


WILLIAM  B.  TAPPAN.  49 


I  SAID  THUS  TO  MY  GLASS- 

I  said  thus  to  my  glass— 

'Twas  at  a  lonely  hour, 
When  Memory  bade  pass 

Before  the  mental  eye 

Affliction  and  her  power — 
I  said  thus  to  my  glass — 

'Twas  in  a  desert  spot, 
Screened  from  the  world's  cold  gaze, 

By  it  remembered  not; 
I  said,    M  Thou  art  my  good, 

Though  Evil  be  thy  name, 
I'll  quaff  thee  and  forget 

In  thy  delights,  my  shame  ; 
Pour  out  libations  then  ! 

The  thirsty  goblet  fill  ; 
I'll  drink  to  faithless  men, 

To  Love,  more  faithless  stilL 

Have  I  not  scanned  the  round 

Of  all  they  call  sincere  ? 
My  spirit !  hast  thou  found 

A  kindred  spirit  here  ! 
Have  I  not  craved  the  boon, 

More  precious  than  their  gold 
A  heart,  within  whose  truth 

I  could  my  own  infold  } 


50  THE  POEMS  OF 

They  laughed  my  words  to  scorn, 

They  jested  at  my  tears  ; 
5Tis  good  that  I  were  born, 

For  wine  hath  vanquished  fears: 
Pour  out  libations,  then! 

Who  cannot  ills  endure 
That  flesh  is  heir  to,   when 

He  hath  a  friend  thus  sure  ? 
Fill  ye  the  goblet  high  ! 

Let  misery  chain  it  up  ; 
Affliction  shall  her  pearl 

Dissolve  within  that  cup.5' 

I  said,  and  on  my  sense 

Unearthly  visions  stole  ; 
Ages  of  old — to  come — 

Passed  by  my  troubled  soul ; 
And  One  appeared,  whose  brow 

AVas  wounded  with  the  thorn  ; 
And  He  replied  not,  when 

Reviled  by  men  of  scorn  ; 
I  heard  him  agonize 

In  prayer — God's  holy  Son — 
Father!  thy  blessed  will 

Alone,  not  mine  be  done! 
AY  hat  said  I  to  my  glass 

At  such  an  hour  as  this  ? 
I  saw  the  tempter  pass 

Away — transporting  bliss 
Poured  its  full  tide  along 

My  bosom,   and  I  said, 
Or  softly  murmured,   Thou  ! 


WILLIAM  B.  TAPPAN.  51 

Who  heard' st  me  here  repine, 
In  dust  who  seest  me  he  ; 
Forgive,  and  take  me  now 
To  thy  embrace,  for  I, 
Father!  henceforth  am  thine. 


PALESTINE. 

Long  hath  the  crescent's  glittering  sign, 

On  Salem's  temple  shone  ; 
Long  hath  Jehovah's  awful  shrine, 

Stood  desolate  and  lone. 

The  tents  of  Midian  tribes  unblest 
On  Shinah's  plains  are  spread ; 

And  wandering  feet  have  rudely  prest 
The  soil  where  Jesus  bled. 

But  Shiloh  comes  to  bless  the  land, 
And  Israel's  tribes  restore  5 
Lo,  Edom  with  Assyria's  band, 
On  Calvary  shall  adore. 

Fair  Lebanon  shall  hear  his  voice, 
And  lands  where  Jordan  flows, 

With  Sharon's  desert  shall  rejoice, 
And  blossom  as  the  rose. 


52  THE  POEMS  OF 

No  more  shall  Zion's  daughter  mourn, 

Or  captive  Judah  sigh ; 
Jehovah  shall  her  walls  adorn, 

And  bring  his  ransomed  nigh. 


THE  STAR  OF  BETHLEHEM. 

Star  of  the  East !  the  Shepherd's  Star  ! 

Benignant  was  thy  lustre,  when 

It  told  of  mercy  from  afar, 

And  beamed  Salvation  down  to  men  : 

The  mystery,  surpassing  ken 

Of  angel-powers,  revealedst  thou  ; 

Celestial  were  thy  glories  then 

That  burst  and  streamed  on  Midnight's  brow  i 

As  bright  thou  burn'st  in  yon  blue  field, 

How  dim  to  thee  the  toys  of  kings  ! 

Vain  the  delight  their  pageants  yield, 

Compared  with  that  which  from  thee  springs  ; 

O,  Earth  and  all  her  little  things, 

Of  real  bliss  can  give  no  ray  ; 

Her  fairest  flowers  have  secret  stings, 

Her  splendours  shine  and  pass  away, 

Star  of  the  East  ?  no  gems  that  burn 
Amid  these  lesser  orbs  we  see  ; 
Or  where  upon  their  axles  turn 
The  worlds  of  vast  infinity, 


WILLIAM  B.  TAPPAN.  53 

Thou  peerless  one  !  can  vie  with  thee  : 
Tliey  never  heralded  the  plan, 
Conceived — performed  by  Deity — 
That  speaks  of  pardon,   peace  to  man  : 
They  hold  along*  the  empyrean  coast 
Their  viewless  march,  unheard,  unknown  j 
The  least  among*  the  radiant  host, 
That  silent  shine,  and  shine  alone  ; 
Bat  thou,  brig-lit  Star  !   Redemption's  own  ! 
Didst  wander  mid  the  lig*ht  of  song* ; 
Thou  cam'st  with  music  from  the  throne, 
Attended  by  a  seraph  throng-. 

Star  of  the  East !   the  tempest-tost, 
On  life's  uncertain  billows  borne, 
Is  by  rude  g-ales  of  trouble  crossed, 
By  hidden  rocks  of  sorrow  torn — 
When  breaks  the  cheering*  Star  of  Morn, 
"When  nig-ht  and  thrall  for  ever  flee, 
O,  where  the  doubts  and  fears  forlorn 
Of  him,  the  wanderer  of  the  sea ! 
Break  out,  blest  Star  !  with  peaceful  ray, 
Our  pilgrim  footsteps  to  incline  ; 
To  g*uide  and  g*uard  our  weeping*  way, 
Along*  these  doubtful  shores  to  shine  ; 
The  heavenly  beacon  light  of  thine 
That  trembled  once  on  Bethlehem's  plain, 
Shall  guide  us  to  the  Source  Divine, 
Shall  lead  us  to  the  Child  again. 

e2 


54  THE  POEMS  OF 


CLOSE  OF  THE  WEEK. 

While  the  solemn  note  of  Time 
Warns  me  of  his  hasty  tread ; 
"While  the  silent  march  of  days 
Tells — "  another  week  hath  fled  5" 
"While  the  hum  of  busy  toil, 
"Works  of  care,   and  labour  cease  ; 
"While  the  six  days'  weary  strife 
Yields  to  holy,  welcome  peace, 
Let  me  all  the  past  review, 
Much  hath  heaven  bestowed  on  me, 
Much  have  I  to  folly  given  ; 
God  !  what  have  I  done  for  thee  } 
Nearer  to  my  final  hour, 
Am  I  sealed  with  Jesus'  blood' 
Nearer  to  eternity, 
Am  I  nearer  to  my  God  ? 
Hasten,  pilgTim  !  on  thy  way, 
Gird  thee  at  the  martyr's  shrine  \ 
Hasten,  pilgTim  !  why  delay  ? 
Immortality  is  thine. 


WILLIAM  B.  TAPPAN.  55 


THE  WAIL  OF  THE  DEEP. 

I  iiaye  watched  the  calm  billow  when  twilight  had 

flown, 
And  the  pale  evening*  star  sweetly  played  on  its 

breast, 
When  zephyr  had  slumbered,  I've  marked  the  low 

moan, 
Steal  on  the  rapt  soul  like  the  songs  of  the  blest. 

'Twas  the  Wail  of  the  Deep !  when  from  ocean's  dark 

cave, 
The  god  of  the  waters,  of  bodiless  form, 
Arose  in  his  anger  to  trouble  the  wave, 
Rejoicing  in  spoil  as  he  rode  on  the  storm. 

O  drear  is  the  strife  when  the  portent  is  nigh  ! 
O  sad  is  the  plaining  that  calls  to  the  dead  ! 
The  wide  waste  of  waters  responds  to  the  cry — 
The  shriek  of  the  wretch  as  he  sinks  to  its  bed. 

When  high  in  yon  vault  walks  the  empress  of  night, 
And  on  the  lone  billow  the  star-ray  doth  sleep, — 
From  slumber  the  sea-boy  is  roused  with  affright, 
And  lists  with  pale  dread  to  the  Wail  of  the  Deep ! 


56  THE  POEMS  OF 


THE  FIELD-STAR  OF  BETHLEHEM. 

u  The  field-star  of  Bethlehem  is  the  most  ghost-like  of  flowers. 
It  resembles  a  large  hyacinth,  the  blossoms  almost  green,  the 
stalks  almost  white,  with  a  strange  shadowy  mixture  of  tints,  a 
ghastly  uncertainty,  a  sepulchral  paleness,  a  solid,  clayey,  visible 
coldness.  Dr.  Clark  found  the  field-star  of  Eethlehem  on  a  tu- 
mulus, in  the  Troas,  which  is  called  the  grave  of  Ajax.  Never 
was  any  locality  more  appropriate.  It  is  the  flower  of  the  grave." 

There's  a  plant  of  the  desert,  all  lonely  'tis  seen, 
It  blossoms  unknown  on  the  couch  of  the  Brave: 
With  the  hue  of  the  sepulchre,  coldly  in  mien, 
Blooms  the  Field-Star  of  Bethlehem,  the  flower  of 
the  grave. 

It  seeks  not  the  garden,  it  shuns  the  parterre, 
Though  lovely,  the  lowliest  of  Flora's  gay  train: 
In  the  grove,  though  the  choices  and  sweetest  dwell 

there, 
Lives  not  this  shy  stranger,  the  queen  of  the  plain. 

The  moon  in  its  brightness  looks  out  on  this  flower, 
But  chilly  and  pale  each  moist  petal  appears  ; 
The  night-star,   while  glowing  alone  in  its  bower, 
Still  wonders  to  see  the  sweet  tendril  in  tears. 

The  soil  of  the  vanquished  hath  given  it  birth, 
The  clime  of  the  abject  its  beauty  hath  nourished  5 
Its  home,  the  degenerate,  polluted  of  earth, 
Yet  the  spot  where  the  sage  and  the  warrior  have 
flourished. 


WILLIAM  B.  TAPPAX.  57 

Yea,  and  shall  flourish  proudly  !  for  they  that  have 

slept 
Awake  from  long*  night,  spurning  fear  and  the  chain; 
And  where,  o'er  her  nuns,  young  Liberty  wept, 
The  smile  of  the  free  brightens  gladly  again. 

Bloom,  bloom,  lovely  flower  !  but  no  longer  alone, 
Unfold  all  thy  fragrance !  yet  not  on  the  grave  ; 
A  clime  unpolluted  henceforth  is  thy  own  ; 
Bloom  thou  for  the  soldier,  a  wreath  for  the  Brave ! 


HOME  OF  MY  YOUTH. 

Home  of  my  youth!   with  fond  delight, 
On  thee  doth  recollection  dwell ; 
Home  of  my  youth  !  how  gaily  bright, 
The  scenes  that  childhood  loved  so  well. 

Cot  of  my  fathers!  well  I  know, 
The  spot  that  saw  my  infant  dawn  ; 
Near  the  green  lane,  the  old  elm  row — 
The  village  spire — the  grassy  lawn. 

O !  sweet  to  me  the  laughing  hours, 
When  earth  seemed  gay,  and  heaven  was  fair  ; 
When  fancy  culled  her  thornless  flowers, 
And  pleasure  reigned,  unknown  to  care. 


58  THE  POEMS  OF 

Home  of  my  youth!  this  heart  away, 
Recals  those  moments  dear  to  me  ; 
Often  in  dreams  will  memory  stray, 
Home  of  my  youth — to  weep  o'er  thee. 


THE  31  AG  DALE  X  S  HYMN. 

I  oow  the  world  derides  my  claim 

To  healing  pity  and  protection  \ 
I  know  that  to  the  child  of  shame, 

It  turns  no  look  of  kind  affection  : 

Full  well  I  know  the  bitter  scoff 

That  greets  the  hapless  female  ever  ; 

The  cold  and  selfish  cast  her  off, 

To  soothe  her  and  reclaim  her,  never  ; 

And  some  that  give  the  ready  smile, 
Approving,  to  the  gay  deceiver, 

Abhor  her,   who  a  prey  to  guile, 
Was  a  too  faithful  fond  believer. 

Yet  there  is  gilead  for  my  need, 

And  balm,  too,   for  this  bosom's  anguish; 

For  He  that  marks  the  bruised  reed, 
AY  ill  never  let  the  wounded  languish. 

Be  still,  my  heart ! — away  ye  fears! 

Tempests  that  have  my  spirit  driven, — 
Even  He  who  looked  on  Mary's  tears, 

Hath  whispered — "Thou,  too,  art  forgiven." 


1 


I 


WILLIAM  B.  TAPPAX.  59 


THE  ALBIOX. 


The  New  York  Packet  ship  Albion,  captain  Williams,  on  her 
passage  to  Liverpool,  was  lost  in  a  storm  on  the  Irish  coast,  off 
Garretstown,  near  the  Old  Point  of  Kinsale,  on  the  22d  of  April, 
1822,  and  all  on  board,  with  the  exception  of  nine,  were  lost.  She 
sailed  from  New  York  on  the  first  of  April,  with  a  crew  of  24  men 
and  28  passengers. 

The  storm  is  weathered,  and  the  fiend  Despair, 
Who  the  long*  weary  day  stood  sullen  by, 
Hath  fled.    And  now  is  heard  the  frequent  prayer 
From  grateful  altars  wafted ;  in  each  eye 
Hope  lights  her  beacon, — busy  fancy  now 
Sketches  fond  scenes  of  bliss,   for  port  is  near ; 
The  proud  ship  cleaves  the  foam  with  steady  prow, 
The  sea-boy  sing's  of  home,  by  peril  made  more  dear. 

'Tis  deathly  slumber,  sure,  not  calm  repose, — 

The  sleep  of  agony  hath  seized  them  ;  why 

Else  this  deep  lethargy  ?     O,   can  ye  close 

Your  lids,  when  desolation  marches  by  ? 

Of  quiet  dream,   when  horror  waits  ye  soon  ? — 

Waken,  ye  tempest-tost!     Wherefore? — the  wave 

Whose  altitude  mocks  heaven,  rolling  on, 

WTill  soon  receive  ye, — ready  is  your  coral  grave. 

The  morning  smiles,  the  breeze  is  fraught  with  balm, 
Hibernia  seems  freshly  from  the  main 
To  spring,  beauteous  and  young.  Nature  is  calm — 
Far,  far,  unruffled,  spreads  the  billowy  plain, 


p 


60  THE  POEMS  OF 

God's  handy-work,  the  world  of  waters,  where 
The  elements  disport,  and  He  is  seen 
In  strength  pavilioned,  on  His  cloudy  car, 
Riding  the  wild  night-storm,  and  humbling  this  ter- 
rene. 

The  morning  smiles,  the  ocean  billow  sleeps, — 
But  where's  the  tall  ship  that  late  ploughed  its  breast, 
The  gallant  Albion  ? — Pity,  shuddering  weeps  ; 
No  more, — only  that  on  the  dark  wave's  crest 
That  night,  at  times,  were  dimly  seen,  'tis  said, 
Some  forms  of  misery,  whose  hands  in  vain 
Were  lift  imploring, — they  sank  with  the  dead, — 
And  piteous  cries  and  shrieks  were  heard, — 'twas 
still  again. 

****** 

Yet  Thou,*  the  child  of  feeling,  shalt  receive 
The  tribute  of  warm  tears.     Around  thy  name 
Mercy  will  twine  her  never-fading  wreath, 
Fairer  than  trophies  won  by  heirs  of  fame. 
Thou  gavest  what  ocean  had  denied,  a  shroud, 
With  rites  of  sepulture.     I  am  yet  proud 
Of  mankind,  for  thy  sake;  God's  benison 
On  thee! — the  deed  shall  live  when  thy  sand,  too, 
hath  run. 


*  Jacob  Mark,  Esq.  U.  S.  consul  at  Kinsale. 


I 


WILLIAM  B.  TAPPAX.  61 


RETROSPECTION. 

'Tis  sweet  in  seclusion  to  look  on  the  past, 
In  life's  sober  twilight  recal  the  day-dream  ; 
To  mark  the  smooth  sunshine  and  skies  overcast, 
That  chequered  our  course  as  we  moved  down  the 
stream. 

For  there  yet  is  a  charm  in  retracing  the  morn 
When  the  star  of  our  pleasure  beamed  brightly 

awhile, 
And  the  tear  that  in  infancy  watered  the  thorn, 
By  the  magic  of  memory  is  changed  to  a  smile. 

How  faint  is  the  touch,  no  perspective  bestowing, 
Nor  scenery  in  nature's  true  colours  arrayed  5 
How  chaste  is  the  landscape,  how  vividly  glowing, 
Where  the  warm  tint  of  fancy  is  mellowed  by  shade ! 

With  cheerfulness  then,   Retrospection!  I'll  greet 

thee, 
Though  the  night-shade  be  twined  in  thy  bouquet 

of  sweets, 
In  the  eve  of  reflection  this  bosom  will  meet  thee, 
While  to  the  dear  vision  of  childhood  it  beats. 

And  the  heart  that  in  confidence  seeks  its  review, 
And  finds  the  calm  impress  of  innocence  there, 
With  rapture  anticipates  happiness  new, 
In  hope  yet  to  come,  it  possesses  a  share, 

F 


I 


62  THE  POEMS  OF 

If  in  climes  of  the  blessed  affections  unite, 
And  those  once  dissevered  are  blended  in  love  ; 
If  thoughts  of  the  past  quicken  present  delight, 
Retrospection  adds  bliss  to  the  spotless  above. 


THE  VIGIL. 

'Tis  night ;  from  beauteous  Palestine 
The  song  and  minstrelsy  have  flown, 

'Tis  night ;  the  priest  forsakes  the  shrine, 
The  holy  temple  sits  alone. 

Gone  is  the  boasting  Pharisee, 

The  prayer  and  daily  alms  are  o'er, 

The  unbelieving  S adduce e 

Offends  the  sacred  court  no  more. 

Hushed  are  the  strains  that  bade  rejoice, 
Silent  the  weary  and  opprest ; 

Lost  is  the  maid  and  matron's  voice 
For  Solyma  hath  sunk  to  rest. 

But  where  is  Jesus  ?  where  is  He 
The  man  afflicted  and  forlorn, — 

Co-equal  with  the  Deity, 

The  object  of  rebuke  and  scorn  ? 

No  follower  of  the  Lord  is  here  ; 
For  Him  no  eyes  their  vigils  keep  ; 


1 


WILLIAM  B.  TAPPAN.  63 

They  that  have  mingled  tear  with  tear, 
Forget  their  woes  in  reckless  sleep. 

Closed  is  each  ear  to  human  moan, 
Save  His,  who  wakes  to  bitter  care  ; 

Hushed  is  each  grief,  but  His  alone 

Who  weeps  for  man  in  midnight  prayer. 


THE  BUNKER-HILL  MONUMKNT. 

What  story  to  posterity's  dull  ear 
Tells  Egypt's  pyramid  ?  Only  that  men 
Some  while  appeared  on  God's  fair  heritage, 
As  crouching  slaves — the  million  spawned  for  one — 
And  he,  the  poor  ambitious  fool,  that  fain 
"Would  live  forever,  yet  unknowing  how, 
With  blood  and  sweat  hewed  out  this  sepulchre — 
Oblivion's  den  ;  and  shrouded  is  his  name 
So  deep  in  the  cursed  tomb,  that  toiling  Age 
Has  lost  its  faintest  shadow.     Not  such  thou, 
Proud  Rock!   by  sons  of  Independence  reared, 
Sculptured  by  Immortality.     Rear  high 
Thy  consecrated  head!  for  thou  art  based 
Upon  no  common  earth ;  the  blood  and  dust 
Of  martyrs  are  beneath  thee  ;  on  their  bones 
Stand  thou  ! — forever  stand,   and  tell  of  Glory. 
Forever  ? — aye,   for  thus  should  virtue  live ; 
Live,  Monument!  though  silent  centuries  heap 
On  thee  their  dust — though  at  fell  Ruin's  touch, 


64  THE  POEMS  OF 

Thou  crumbiest — fallest, — not  the  cenotaph 
Of  mightiest  kings,   shall  be  so  eloquent, 
Or  seem  so  precious  as  one  stone  of  thee. 


WHAT  DOST  THOU  HERE  f 

O  why  should  care  disturb  thy  breast, 

And  anxious  hopes  invade  ? 
These  cares  can  never  yield  thee  rest, 

These  brilliant  hopes  shall  fade: 
Say,  is  this  world  to  thee  so  dear  ? 
Say,  traveller,   "  What  dost  thou  here  ?" 

Why  shouldst  thou  prize  these  fleeting' joys, 
And  build  thy  heaven  on  earth  ? 

Ah,  soon  each  false  enjoyment  cloys, 
And  vain  is  empty  mirth ; 

Say,  can  they  bring  true  pleasure  near  ? 

Immortal!  say,   "  What  dost  thou  here  ?" 

Why  shouldst  thou  deem  thy  lot  unkind, 

When  sorrow's  boisterous  flood 
Has  closed  around  thy  'nighted  mind, 

But  brought  thee  near  to  God  ? 
Is  He  not  all  }  Is  heaven  not  dear  ? 
Say,  weeping  soul,   "What  dost  thou  here  }" 


WILLIAM  B.  TAPPAN.  65 


TO  A  YOUNG  FRIEND  WITH  A  POCKET  TESTA- 
MENT. 

The  charter  of  a  nation's  weal 

Is  dear  to  every  patriot's  heart, 
And  he  that  scorns  its  sacred  seal 

In  Freedom's  flame  can  share  no  part  \ 

To  young"  Desire,  how  choice  the  deed 
That  crowns  the  wishes  of  the  heir  5 

How  earnest,   anxious,  is  his  heed 
That  nought  shall  the  bequest  impair; 

But  dearer  than  the  sacred  scroll 
That  shows  a  rising  nation  free  ; 

Dearer  than  riches  to  the  soul, 
Is  the  bequest  of  Deity. 

This  guides  the  weary  wanderer's  way, 
This  tells  of  a  Redeemer's  name  5 

And  he  that  on  its  truths  doth  stay, 

Shall  smile  when  worlds  are  wrapt  in  flame. 


THE  WRECK. 


The  ocean  frowned  darkly,  the  tempest  blew, 
And  the  thunders  heavily  rolled ; 

The  billow,  late  trembling  with  cerulean  hue, 
Now  blackening  in  anger  was  scrolled. 

f2 


66  THE  POEMS  OF 

'Twas  sad,  for  borne  on  the  echo  of  night, 
Came  the  voice  of  the  furious  blast ; 

'Twas  drear,   for  no  ray  lent  its  beacon  light, 
Save  the  lightning  that  fearfully  past. 

'Twas  lonely,  for  nought  could  the  wind-god  descry, 
Save  the  barque  that  breasted  the  foam  ; 

In  the  moanings  of  midnight,  the  mariner's  cry 
Was  heard,  bewailing  his  home. 

The  fires  of  home  burn  bright,  but  ne'er 
Shall  they  shine  on  the  mariner's  grave  j 

The  smiles  of  affection,  the  prattlers  are  there, 
But  the  father  lies  cold  in  the  wave. 


THY  WILL  BE  DOXE. 

When  sorrow  casts  its  shade  around, 
And  pleasure  seems  our  course  to  shun ; 

When  nought  but  grief  and  care  is  found, 
'Tis  sweet  to  say  "Thy  will  be  done." 

When  sickness  lends  its  pallid  hue 
And  every  dream  of  bliss  has  flown, 

When  quickly  from  the  fading  view 
Recede  the  joys  that  once  were  known, 

The  soul  resigned  will  still  rejoice, 

Though  life's  last  sand  has  nearly  run  ; 

With  humble  faith  and  trembling  voice, 
It  still  responds,  "Thy  will  be  done." 


WILLIAM  B.  TAPPAN.  67 

When  called  to  mourn  the  early  doom 

Of  one  Affection  held  most  dear, 
While  drops  upon  the  closing'  tomb 

The  silent,  the  expressive  tear  ; 

Though  love  its  tribute  sad  will  pay, 
And  earthly  streams  of  solace  shun, 

Still,  still  the  gracious  soul  will  say 
In  lowly  dust,   "  Thy  will  be  done." 

Whatever,  Lord,  thou  hast  designed 
To  bring"  my  soul  to  thee,  its  Trust  ,• 

If  mercies  or  afflictions  kind, 

For  all  thy  dealing's,  Lord,  are  just — 

Take  all !  but  grant  in  goodness  free, 

That  love  which  ne'er  thy  stroke  would  shun, 

Support  this  heart  and  strengthen  me 
To  say  in  faith  "  Thy  will  be  done." 


THERE  S  REST  FOR  THE  WEARY. 

O  THor  that  hast  strayed  in  a  pathway  of  sorrow, 
Where  joy  is  a  stranger  and  peril  is  near ; 
With  regret  for  the  past  and  no  hope  for  the  morrow, 
The  sigh  thy  companion,  thy  solace  a  tear — 

Though  dark  thy  horizon,  no  star  of  day  cheering, 
Though  thy  way,  long  and  lonely,  no  pleasures  il- 
lume ; 


68  THE  POEMS  OF 

Yet  in  faith  turn  thy  vision  to  solace  appearing, 
For  a  ray  of  tranquillity  shines  from  the  tomb. 

There's  bliss  yet  in  store,   let  reflection  still  cheer 

thee, 
There's  rest  for  the  wean*,  unfading-  and  true  5 
On  the  ocean  of  life,  though  the  billows  are  near  thee, 
Look  afar  where  the  haven  of  peace  is  in  view  ! 

'Tis  free   from  the  tempest   that  here  hath  long 

shrouded 
Thy  day,  and  the  false  light  that  shone  to  decoy  ; 
Its  waters  of  life  reflect  skies  still  unclouded, 
And  Jesus  the  Lamb  is  its  light  and  its  joy. 


CHARLES  H.  PARKER. 

Parker  !  there  are  flowers  for  thee — 

Friendship's  hand  shall  wreathe  them  : 
Parker  !  there  are  songs  for  thee — 

Memory  shall  breathe  them  ! 
Hasten,  maidens  !  to  his  tomb, 

All  that's  lovely  there  reposes — 
Strew  the  turf  with  Flora's  bloom, 

Strew  the  bed  with  early  roses  ! 

Thine  was  pleasure's  halcyon  morn, 
Thine  were  skies  unclouded ; 

Weep  !  for  soon  the  smiling  dawn 
"Was  in  darkness  shrouded ; 


WILLIAM  B.  TAPPAN.  69 

Thine  was  talent,  worth  was  thine,     u 

Thy  bosom,   feeling's  portal — 
Who  shall  weep  ; — at  yonder  shrine 

Thou  flourishest  immortal. 

There  are  tears  when  manhood  sleeps 

With  corruption  blended  \ 
There  is  balm  when  friendship  weeps 

Genius,  worth,  ascended ! 
Yes,  we  wept,  when  thou  didst  not — 

Shade  !  forgive  the  error  \ 
Yea,  we  trembled,  thou  couldst  not, 

At  the  king"  of  terror. 

Farewell,  farewell — Spirit !  yet 

Say,   'tis  not  forever  ; 
Farewell,  farewell! — 'tis  to  meet, 

Meet,  where  none  can  sever  ; 
Skies  shall  vanish,  earth  decay — 

Honour,  Virtue,   fly  not  5 
Worlds  on  worlds  shall  roll  away, 

Genius,   Feeling,   die  not  ! 


CHILESE  WARRIOR'S  SONG. 

Hark  !  comrades,  hark  !  the  trumpet's  swell 

Proclaims  the  note  of  war ; 
The  death-drum  roll  and  bugle  tell 

The  din  of  battle  far: 


70  THE  POEMS  OF 

To  free  a  bleeding-  natal  land 

From  Leon's  galling*  chain, 
The  warrior  gTasps  the  glittering*  brand, 

And  steeps  in  blood  the  plain  ; 
While  Plata  rolls  and  Andes  rise, 
Each  Chilese  heart  shall  Freedom  prize. 

Awake!  too  long  has  bondage  hurled 

Its  curse  on  Freedom's  soil ; 
Awake !  too  long*  a  suffering'  world 

Has  gToaned  with  slavery's  spoil ; 
The  deepened  shades  of  slumbering  night 

Enscrolled,   are  rolling  far; 
The  dawn  leads  on  meridian  light, 

And  dims  the  risen  star ; 
While  Plata  rolls  and  Andes  rise, 
Each  Chilese  heart  shall  Freedom  prize. 

Awake !   awake !  to  glorious  fight, 

For  home  and  country  call, 
The  watch-word  sounds,  "  Ocr  God  axd  right," 

The  vanquished  Foemen  fall! 
'Tis  Heaven  that  is  the  soldier's  guard, 

In  gory  battle -fray  j 
'Tis  Virtue  wreathes  a  bright  reward 

To  crown  the  victor-day  ; 
While  Plata  rolls  and  Andes  rise, 
Each  Chilese  heart  shall  Freedom  prize. 

1818. 


WILLIAM  B.  TAPPAN.  71 

0 
REDEMPTION. 

Arise,  shixe,  for  thy  light  is  come.    Isa.  lx.  1. 

Hark!  'tis  the  prophet  of  the  skies 

Proclaims  redemption  near ; 
The  night  of  death  and  bondage  flies, 

The  dawning  tints  appear. 

Zion  from  deepest  shades  of  gloom 

Awakes  to  glorious  day  ; 
Her  desert  wastes  with  verdure  bloom, 

Her  shadows  flee  away. 

To  heal  her  wounds,  her  night  dispel, 

The  heralds*  cross  the  main ; 
On  Calvary's  awful  brow  they  tell 

That  Jesus  lives  again. 

From  Salem's  towers  the  Islam  sign, 

With  holy  zeal  is  hurled, 
And  there  Ixxa>tel's  symbols  shine, 

His  banner  is  unfurled. 

The  gladdening  news  conveyed  afar, 

Remotest  nations  hear  ,- 
To  welcome  Judah's  rising  star, 

The  ransomed  tribes  appear. 

*  Missionaries  to  Palestine. 


72  THE  POEMS  OF 

Again  in  Bethlehem  swells  the  song", 

The  choral  breaks  again, 
While  Jordan's  shores  the  strains  prolong', 

M  Good-will  and  peace  to  men  !" 


MY   DEPARTED  CHILD. 

O  sainted  babe!  and  hast  thou  sought 
Thus  soon,  thy  home  in  yonder  sphere  } 
And  is  thy  every  wish  and  thought 
Purged  from  the  dross  that  veiled  it  here ? 

With  faculties  enlarged,  refined — 
Read'st  thou  those  mysteries  unknown? 
Dost  thou — a  pure  immortal  mind, 
Stand  where  the  rainbow  girds  the  throne  ! 

Thou  dearest  one! — and  art  thou  far 
Removed  from  perils  that  we  see  ? 
Beyond  the  chambers  of  the  star, 
Ranging  the  bright  empyrion  free  ? 

And  dost  thou  from  those  worlds  of  bliss, 
Whose  depths  no  mortal  sense  may  know- 
Bend,  in  an  hour  of  love,  to  this 
Receptacle  of  tears  and  wo? 

O,  let  it  be,  bless'd  one !  to  teach 
Thy  parents  how  to  follow  thee ; 


WILLIAM  B.  TAPPAX.  73 

Bid  them  forsake  this  span  and  reach 
In  thought,  thy  own  eternity  : 

Bid  them  rejoice  :  for  though  in  earth 
The  beauteous  clay  they  cherished,  lies, 
Yet,  formed  in  Christ,  a  nobler  birth, 
A  saint  is  given  to  the  skies. 


THE  MORXIXG  STAR. 

I   AX  THE    ROOT    AXD    THE    OFFSPRING    OF    DAVID,     AND 
THE  BRIGHT  AND  MORNING  STAR.     REV.   XXII.  16, 

Benighted  on  the  troublous  main, 

While  stormy  terrors  clothe  the  sky, 
The  trembling  voyager  strives  in  vain, 

And  nought  but  stern  despair  is  nigh  ; 
When  lo,  a  gem  of  peerless  light, 

With  radiant  splendour  shines  afar  ; 
And  through  the  clouds  of  darkest  night, 

Appears  the  bright  and  morning  star  ! 

With  joy  he  greets  the  cheering  ray, 

That  beams  on  ocean's  weary  breast ; 
Precursor  of  a  smiling  day, 

It  lulls  his  fears  to  peaceful  rest: 
No  more  in  peril  shall  he  roam, 

For  night  and  danger  now  are  far; 
With  steady  helm  he  enters  home, 

His  guide  the  bright  and  morning  star! 


74  THE  POEMS  OF 

Thus  when  affliction's  billows  roll, 

And  waves  of  sorrow  and  of  sin, 
Beset  the  fearful,  weeping*  soul, 

And  all  is  dark  and  drear  within: 
*Tis  Jesus,   whispering*  strains  of  peace, 

Drives  every  doubt  and  fear  afar  ; 
He  bids  the  raging  tempest  cease, 

And  shines  the  Brigiit  and  Morning1  Star ! 


SONNET. THE   T03IB. 

MAK  LIETH  DOWN   AXD  RISETH  NOT  AGAIN  TILL  THE 
HEAVENS   BE  NO  MORE.        Job. 

Soft  are  the  slumbers  of  the  sunless  tomb  ; 

Quiet  dwells  there — its  inmate  brooding  peace  ; 
The  still  inhabitant  heeds  not  the  gloom 
Of  night,  nor  starts  when  morn  awakes  in  bloom, 

The  wanderer  rests,  and  cares  and  sorrows  cease. 
Yet  shall  these  forms  forever  pillow  there  ? 
Shall  dust  to  dust  its  lasting  kin  compare  ? 

O,  Thou  Unseen!   shall  thy  creation  sleep, 
Mingled  with  earth,  and  dark  corruption  share, 

"Where  silence  drear,  and  death,  their  vigils  keep  ? 
We  bless  thee  for  the  cheering  hope  revealed, 

Where  Inspiration  sheds  its  living  ray, 
Which,  quickening  vision,  shows  the  grave  unsealed, 

Its  slumberers  waking  to  eternal  day. 


WILLIAM  K.  TAPPAN.  75 


HYMN  TO  THE  DEAD. 

Peaceful  rest,  ye  silent  dead  ! 

Rest,  ye  weary  wanderers,  rest; 
Gentle  is  your  earthy  bed ; 

Quiet  is  the  aching  breast. 

Peaceful  rest,  for  o'er  the  tomb 
Weeping-  willows  love  to  wave  ; 

Rest,  for  Spring's  perennial  bloom 
Clusters  fairest  on  the  grave. 

Rest,  for  life  is  but  a  dream  5 
Bliss  is  nought  but  gilded  wo  5 

They  that  live  enjoy  the  gleam, 
They  that  slumber  truly  know. 

Rest!  no  sorrow  can  befall  ye, 
Mingle  with  the  valley's  clod ; 

Rest,  till  nature's  cry  shall  call  ye, 
Call  ye  to  approach  your  God. 


76  THE  TOEMS  OF 


MY  COUNTRY. 

My  country,  nations  proudly  say, 

And  long  be  heard  the  story — 
That  thou  hast  risen,  the  gem  of  Day, 

The  favourite  star  of  glory: 
And  inspiration  lends  its  voice, 

And  Time,  his  page  unfolding, 
Bids  thee,  his  cherished  one,  rejoice, 

Futurity  beholding. 

The  flood  of  years  shall  pass,  yet  lives 

Untouched,  thy  deeds  recorded; 
Yea,  Age's  chronicle  revives 

The  meed  to  thee  awarded. 
Since  pilgrim-sires  pursued  their  way 

Across  the  trackless  ocean, 
Escaped  from  persecution's  sway 

And  bigotry's  commotion  ; 

Since  spirit-Freedom  hither  fled 

From  regions  where  none  sought  her — 
Her  native  mountains  strewed  with  dead 

Her  vales  the  bed  of  slaughter — 
Thou  in  the  plenitude  of  fame, 

Majestic  hast  ascended, 
And  clustering  round  thy  deathless  name 

Are  strength  and  beauty  blended. 


WILLIAM  B.  TAPPAN.  77 

In  contest,  the  victorious,  thou, 

On  tented  field  or  ocean  ; 
In  peace,  the  fair,  whose  queenly  brow 

Claims  and  receives  devotion. 
When  Freedom  fires  the  bosom,   can 

Its  resolution  falter? 
Never  !   for  here  regenerate  man 

Rears  to  his  God  an  altar. 

My  country  !   lives  there,   can  there  be, 

O'er  worth  like  thine  yet  glowing' — 
A  soul  not  thrilled  to  ecstacy, 

A  heart  not  overflowing  ? 
If  such,   from  him  the  recreant  slave, 

Let  hope  her  heaven  sever, 
For  him  oblivion  ope  its  grave 

With  resurrection  never. 

Hail  to  thee,  home  of  Liberty  ! 

Thy  sons,   thy  glory  sharing, 
From  toils  reposing,  find  in  thee 

The  fruits  of  noble  daring ; 
And  when,  like  autumn  fruit,   our  sires 

Have  with  the  valley  blended, 
Be  ours  the  never  dying  fires 

That  on  their  shrines  descended. 


g2 


THE  POEMS  OF 


WHY  DO  I  LOVE  THEE? 

Why  do  I  love  thee  ? 

Maiden,   wilt  thou  tell — 
Why  hast  thou  round  me 

Fastened  thy  spell  ? 
Is  it  thy  fairy  form, 

Graceful  and  gay  } 
Is  it  thy  j  et  locks, 

Where  light  sylphs  play  ? 

Is  it  thy  dark  eye, 

Bright  as  gazelle, 
Is  rit  the  bosom-sigh, 

Where  fond  thoughts  dwell  ? 
No  !   the  sigh  believing-, 

Too  late  finds  the  youth, 
That  love  is  deceiving-, 

That  vows  are  untruth. 

The  fairy  form  it  is  not, 

Graceful  and  gay  ; 
The  jet  locks  it  is  not, 

Where  light  sylphs  play  ; 
The  glance  it  may  not  be 

From  eyes  deemed  divine, 
Though  orbs  I  may  not  see 

Brighter  than  thine. 

But  maiden,  thy  bosom  His 

Where  truth  is  throned  queen, 


WILLIAM  B.  TAPPAX.  79 

Where  attendant,  the  graces, 

Are  with  modesty  seen  ; 
'Tis  thy  heart,   dear  enchantress  \ 

So  yielding",  yet  true — 
Its  witchery  of  tenderness 

Binds  me  to  vou. 


FOUNDED  OX  A  FACT  THAT    OCCrRRED    IX    SEPTEMBER, 

1826. 

I  long  have  thought  man's  heart,  though  formed  to 

gentleness, 
And  moulded  by  sweet  Mercy,   changes  soon 
To  unrelenting  hardness,  when  exposed 
Unto  the  bright  rays  of  prosperity. 
For  I  have  seen  the  meek  one  chafe  and  rage, 
Yea,   in  his  anger,   tread  on  him  that  wore 
A  form  like  to  his  own.     I  have  beheld 
When  he  did  spurn  his  fellow,  and  did  curse 
The  fatherless  and  widow  in  their  want ! 

I  followed  late  unto  the  narrow  house, 
One  that  I  knew  in  his  more  prosperous  day ; 
Whose  heart  was  ever  open  to  distress, 
Whose  hand  was  liberal  to  befriend.     Yet  he, 
Left  to  Adversity's  rude  grasp — found  those 
That  shared  his  cup  and  converse,  distant  now — 


80  THE  POEMS  OF 

Mean  parasites,  that  shunned  Affliction's  door. 

And  at  that  funeral  many  tears  were  shed — 

More,  as  it  seemed,  than  death,  our  common  lot, 

Alone  should  cla  m.     1  asked  of  her  that  leaned 

For  needed  help  upon  me,  and  who  shook 

And  wept  as  if  her  very  soul  d  d  sob — 

The  cause  of  this,   so  strange  distress,  and  heard 

A  tale  of  grief — my  heart  wept  as  I  heard. 

A  man  of  avar  ce — a  pitiless 

Base  worsh  pper  of  gold,   had  seized  this  son 

Of  hard  Misfortune — from  a  sick  bed  too, 

Aye,  from  a  wife  and  babes,   on  whom  disease 

And  wasting  sorrow  long  had  fastened; 

Had  torn  him,  and  for  lack  of  sord.d  coin, 

Doomed  h  m  to  perish  in  the  prison-house. 

His  wife,   faithful  as  woman  ever  is, 

Though  stricken,  left  h  m  not.     Even  at  the  hour 

Of  his  extiemity,  she  closer  clung, 

And  neither  want  nor  wretchedness  could  frown 

That  tender,  virtuous  helpmate  from  his  side. 

And,   as  she  saw  death  hastily  approach, 

And  marked  damps  gathering,  and  no  one  near 

To  ad  the  sufferer,  the  screams  she  sent 

From  Misery's  abyss  one  would  have  thought 

Might  st'r  the  dead.     Yet  no  help  came,   and  there 

In  that  damp  prison,   in  her  wild  despair, 

She  sat,   and  held  his  throbb'ng  head,  until 

Death's  marble  impress,  fixed  upon  his  brow, 

Told  that  his  heart  was  broke. 


WILLIAM   B.   TAPPAX.  81 


THE  THORN  OF  LIFE. 

We  see  in  life's  wide  wilderness, 

Some  plants  of  fair  and  varied  mien ; 

Love's  rose  springs  here,  while  there,  distress, 
The  night-shade,  rank,  is  seen. 

With  choicest  care  we  cull  the  flowers 
That  breathe  of  beauty  and  of  morn ; 

But  while  the  bouquet  charms  the  eye, 
We  feel  the  secret  thorn. 

And  who  is  free  from  sorrow's  thorn  ■ 
Joy's  sparkling-  beverage  dost  thou  sip  ? 

Thou  mayst — but  soon  the  poisonous  dreg 
Shall  meet  thy  quivering  lip. 

Thy  morning,  gay,  perhaps,  hath  shone, 
And  Hope  exulting  plumed  its  flight ; 

At  noon,  the- stern  destroyer  came, 
With  disappointment's  blight. 

Hast  friends  ?  thou  hast,  yet  the  last  sun 
That  saw  thy  bliss,  hath  seen  the  dart, 

Whose  cruel  fang  shall  pierce  thy  friend, 
And  wring  thy  lonely  heart. 

Thy  wife,  thy  offspring — whence  that  sigh  ? 
Too  well  I  trace  the  secret  tear, 


\ 


82 


THE  POEMS  OF 


For  thou,  who  wife  and  offspring  knew, 
Hast  wept  upon  their  bier. 

Love  hath  its  chill,  and  Mirth  the  sigh, 
And  who  may  boast  a  cloudless  morn  ? 

Mortal !  that  cull'st  the  flowers  of  life, 
Think  not  to  escape  the  thorn. 


THE  BOATMAN'S  RETURN. 

The  twilight  had  fled,  and  the  night-lamp  alone 

Illumined  the  forest  and  mellowed  the  shade; 

The  song  of  the  cushat  and  whip-o-will's  moan 

Was  over,   and  solitude  reigned  in  the  glade  ; 

Nought  was  seen  save  the  meteor  that  speckled  the 
gloam, 

And  the  pale  starry  brilliants  that  studded  the  sky; 

Nought  was  heard  save  the  yell  where  the  forest- 
kings  roam, 

The  moan-breeze  and  hoarse  murmuring  break  of 
the  foam, 

As  the  barque  o'er  its  snow-mantled  breast  seemed 
to  fly. 

'Twas  the  hour  of  the  heart,  to  memory  dear, 
When  fancy,  lone  wanderer,  to  the  past  doth  return; 
'Twas  sacred  to  sadness  which  hallowed  the  tear, 
As  it  lingered  o'er  joys  that  affection  would  mourn; 
The  Boatman  absorbed,   on  the  motionless  oar, 


WILLIAM  B.  TAPPAN.  83 

Recollection  indulging-,  had  gently  reclined, 
Its  strokes  the  bine  billow  resounded  no  more, 
Forgotten  the  barque  and  the  tall  rocky  shore, 
For  home  and  its  treasures  arose  on  his  mind. 

From  home  long*  a  wanderer,  he'd  traversed  the 

main, 
And  far  had  the  Boatman  from  happiness  strayed  ; 
But  now  to  the  woodland  returning*  ag*ain, 
The  fond  smile  of  hope  o'er  his  rapt  vision  played; 
And  he  thought  of  the  cottage  that  rose  in  the  dell, 
And  he  thought  of  the  hours  that  childhood  knew 

there, 
And  with  rapture  he  thought — but  the  full  bosom's 

swell, 
"With  emotion  forbade  what  affection  might  tell 
Of  the  maiden  whose  glance  could  beguile  every 

care. 

And  in  fancy  the  valley  that  borders  the  stream, 
To  his  view  seemed  as  gay,  and  as  sweet  shone  the 

star 
As  the  evening  when  chaste  with  a  tremulous  gleam, 
It  played  o'er  the  billow  and  mantled  afar; 
When  he  clasped  the  true  maid  to  the  heart  that  re- 
vealed 
Its  affection  sincere  by  the  soft-heaving  sigh, 
While  she   whispered,    "we  part!  but  may  He  be 

thy  shield, 
Who  alike  on  the  wave  and  the  red  battle-field, 
To  the  wanderer  forlorn  with  protection  is  nigh," 


84  THE  P0E3IS  OF 

O,  sweet  are  the  joys  that  from  innocence  flow, 

And  pure  is  the  bliss  that  affection  endears, 

If  sorrow  is  nigh  'tis  the  gilead  of  wo, 

And  the  wild-flower  of  love  beams  brightest  through 

tears ; 
O  Boatman  awake  !   for  thy  perils  are  o'er, 
The  morn  hath  illumined  the  sea's  wavy  breast — 
Thy  barque  gently  grates  on  the  yellow  sand  shore, 
The  valley  appears — see!  the  low  cottage  door, 
In  the  arms  of  thy  true  love,  thou  wanderer  art  blest. 


WHEN  THE  ROSE  IN  SHARON  BLOOMING. 

When  the  rose  in  Sharon  blooming,* 
Sheds  sweet  fragrance  on  the  air, 

Each  loved  tint  newr  grace  assuming, 
Doth  its  varied  charms  declare. 

When  the  lily  'neath  the  mountain, 
Weeps  in  Hermon's  glittering  dew; 

Pure  as  Kedron's  crystal  fountain, 
Shines  its  robe  of  spangled  hue. 

Fair  are  Sharon's  blooming  roses, 

Rich  the  lily  of  the  vale  ; 
'Mid  each  blush,   delight  reposes, 

Nectared  sweets  embalm  the  gale; 


*  Solomon's  Song,  iii.   1. 


WILLIAM  B.    TAPPAN.  85 

But  when  Jesus,  Lord  of  heaven, 

He  whom  Saints  with  love  adore, 
Kindly  says  to  man,   forgiven, 

"  Go,  thou  contrite — sin  no  more" — ■ 

Radiant  beauty  he  discloses, 

While  he  saves  from  sorrow's  doom  ; 

Sweeter  than  the  blush  of  roses, 
Fairer  than  the  lily's  bloom. 


BEFORE  ME  LIES  THE  TROUBLOUS  DEEP. 

Before  me  lies  the  troublous  deep, 
Life's  ocean,  tost  by  many  a  storm  ; 

Behind  me,  hushed,  the  billows  sleep, 
"Whose  calm,  wild  winds  no  more  deform, 

I  tempted  childhood's  sparkling  wave, 
And  careless  toyed  with  danger  nigh; 

I  trod  upon  the  gaping  grave 

And  smiled  at  fear,  yet  knew  not  why. 

In  youth  I  sought  a  brighter  path, 

Yet  paused  to  gaze  at  childhood's  beam; 

Fled  was  the  angry  lightning's  scathe, 
For  peaceful  is  Love's  early  dream, 

What  dangers  press  on  manhood's  prow ! 
His  barque  is  tost  by  every  gale, 

H 


86  THE  POEMS  OF 

The  shoals  of  folly  thicken  now, 
And  perils  rise  and  cares  assail : 

Yet  manhood  past,  how  slight  appear 
The  terrors  strown  on  manhood's  way! 

Night's  cowering*  phantoms  disappear, 
And  bright  to  memory  shines  the  day. 

Before  me  lies  the  troublous  deep, 
The  sea  that  angry  waves  deform; 

Yet  Faith  shall  bid  the  billow  sleep, 
And  Hope  shall  soar  above  the  storm. 


I  long  had  loved  thee,  thou  wast  dearer  far 

Than  all  mortality  beside  could  boast  j 

My  pride,  my  glory,  thou,  my  chosen  star. 

I  loved  thee  well,  but  I  do  love  thee  most 

Since  the  sad  time  that  sickness  writhed  this  frame; 

For  well  do  I  remember  all  the  care 

That,  gathering  round  thee,  clouded  thy  young  brow 

The  while  thou  lean'dst  o'er  me,  with  looks  the  same 

Of  tenderness,  that  first  taught  me  to  bow 

At  Goodness'  shrine,  a  willing  votary  there. 

A  wife  !  what  tie,  love,  can  with  this  compare  ? 

Best  of  God's  gifts,  where  all  of  loveliness 

Is  given,  to  soothe  the  sojourner  below — 

O,  hard  his  passage  through  life's  wilderness 

Who  has  not  Woman  to  assuage  his  wo! 


WILLIAM  B.  TAPPAX.  87 

1  long"  had  loved  thee,  and  in  early  hours 
Thy  image  came  along*  with  beauty  blended ; 
Then  Pleasure  beckoned  me  unto  her  bowers, 
While  all  of  sunshine  on  my  steps  attended. 
Dearest!  I  sought  thee  in  youth's  halcyon  day, 
Yet  more  I  prize  thee,  now  the  mellow  ray 
Of  calm  enjoyment  gently  steals  along", 
Gilding-  with  sober  tint  our  humble  way. 
Remote  from  all  the  bustle  of  the  throng-, 
Our  home  is  in  each  other,   and  the  din 
Of  pomp  and  splendour,  love  !  we  shall  not  heed ; 
The  world  is  not  for  us,  and  those  within 
Who  seek  their  aliment,  are  rich  indeed  ; 
To  us  is  given  the  soul-soothing*  song* 
And  love  to  bless,  we  ask  no  other  meed. 
Though  fond  of  retrospect — and  I  confess 
That  on  the  past  I've  gaz'd  with  dear  delight, 
And,  much  reviewing*,  marked  new  cause  to  bless 
Heaven  and  thee,  love — yet  with  fonder  ken 
Thought  glances  onward  to  the  coming  night, 
The  softly  stealing  night  of  being,  when 
We  two  shall  downward  tread  the  narrow  vale 
That  shadows  forth  into  eternity — 
The  pathway  fraught  with  Eden's  primal  balm, 
Leading  to  heights  of  peace,  where  travellers  see 
The  lightning  fork  below,  but  feel  no  harm, 
And  hear  the  tempest  rave,  no  storms  can  them  as- 
sail. 
While  hand  in  hand  we  journey  on,  how  sweet 
The  converse  of  departed  hours!  the  tale 
Of  other  days  will  'guile  our  pilgrim  feet. 


88 


THE  POEMS  OF 


TO  THE  CRESCENT. 


Moslem  Banner!  burnest  thou 

Where  the  Grecian  hails  the  fig-ht  > 
Triumph,  balefire!  triumph  now! 

Soon  thy  beams  shall  shroud  in  night. 
Symbol  of  a  recreant  power, 

Thou  that  gem'st  the  Soldan's  throne, 
Thou  that  from  proud  dome  and  tower 

Twice  six  hundred  years  hast  shone — 
Crescent!  now  thy  glories  wane, 

Ruin  o'er  thee  fling's  her  pall, 
Never  to  revive  again, 

Vaunting  Crescent,  thou  must  fall. 

"Who  upon  God's  chartered  soil, 

Who  that's  Man,  would  be  a  slave  ! 
Who  would  swell  the  despot's  spoil, 

While  that  earth  affords  a  grave } 
Who  to  Turkish  tyranny, 

Coward — bends  his  abject  soul, 
Let  him  not  in  combat  die, 

Let  oblivion  o'er  him  roll: 
Liberty  !  thy  deathless  song, 

Ever  noble — still  inspires; 
At  its  echoes  shall,   ere  long, 

Quiver  Stamboul's  thousand  spires: 
Hellespont's  oft  blood-stained  border 

Hears  e'en  now  the  quick'ning  cry; 


WILLIAM  B.  TAPPAN.  89 

St.  Sophia's  quailing*  warder 

Sees  the  gathering*  tempest  nigh. 

Moslem  empire !  lone  not  now 

Stainest  thou  fair  Europe's  hem  ; 
Fouler,  deeper  spot  than  thou, 

Blotteth  her  proud  diadem  ; 
Fallen  Iberia!  thy  past  story 

From  neglect  awhile  may  save 
Thy  lost  name — thy  future  glory 

Sleeps  in  a  redeemless  grave: 
Crescent !  though  thou  gleam'st  awhile, 

From  tall  dome  and  minaret, 
Yet  in  peace  the  Cross  shall  smile 

O'er  the  land  of  Mahomet; 
Yes!  and  where  thou  burnest,  we 

Freedom's  sign  may  greet  again — 
Who,   O  Heaven  !  once  more  shall  see 

Disenthralled  regenerate  Spain  ? 

1822. 


WHEN  COLD  IN  THE  DUST. 

When  cold  in  the  dust  sleeps  this  bosom  of  clay, 
And  the  captive  enlarged  wanders  lightly  and  free; 
While  it  treads  the  expanse  of  eternity,  say, 
Will  it  then  be  a  stranger  to  love  and  to  thee  ? 

Oh  shall  the  pure  flame  which  was  kindled  below 
From  the  spark  that  still  burns  on  the  altar  above, 
h2 


90  THE  POEMS  OF 

Be  quenched  in  the  clime  where  each  breast  feels 

its  glow, 
Where  each  harp  wakes  the  theme  and  the  choral 

is  love  ? 

Oh  no !  in  those  regions  of  light  and  of  j  oy, 
Recollection  returning",  will  friendship  prolong"; 
We  shall  know  as  we're  known,   and  its  converse 

enjoy, 
As  we  join  in  the  cordon  and  mingle  the  song. 

Unclothed  with  the  frailties  that  fettered  us  here, 
Each  scene  of  past  anguish  forgot  by  us  then — 
The  cloud  that  has  hovered  will  there  disappear, 
And  the  sunshine  it  veiled  will  illumine  again. 

Freed  alike  from  each  sorrow  that  reigned  in  the 

breast, 
And  the  bliss  that  shone  dimly  or  sparkled  on  care; 
The  revealings  of  joy  will  but  quicken  its  zest, 
Immortality  seal  what  it  ne'er  can  impair! 


WILLIAM  B.  TAPPAN.  9X 


THEY  SHALL  LIE  DOWN  ALIKE  IN  THE  DUST. 

Ye  hapless!  who  repining',  grieve 

At  poverty  and  ill, 
Who  doubtful,  question  heaven's  decree, 

And  murmur  at  its  will : 

Think  ye  that  affluence  is  the  source 
Whence  unmixed  blessings  flow  ? 

Think  ye  that  gold  can  satisfy, 
Or  splendour,  peace  bestow  .? 

Mistaken  race  ! — alas,  how  few 

This  panacea  boast ; 
Ye  labour,  but  for  bliss  untrue, 

The  care  and  toil  are  lost. 

Go,  learn  content!  for  riches  yet 

Have  never  fed  the  mind  ; 
Go,  learn  content!  the  coffered  wretch 

May  ne'er  enjoyment  find. 

The  costly  robe  of  Tyrian  dye, 

Oft  hides  some  bosom  care  \ 
And  beauty's  smile  and  beauty's  wit 

Conceal  the  latent  tear. 

Art  thou  obscure? — the  bitter  cares 
Of  genius  are  not  thine  ; 


92  THE  POEMS  OF 

Unknown? — rejoice,  for  thou  art  free, 
No  slave  at  folly's  shrine. 

Thine  are  affection's  purest  sweets, 

And  thine  is  love's  caress  ; 
Approving  peace  within  thy  heart, 

A  Providence  to  bless. 

Thine  are  the  beauties  of  the  globe, 
The  charms  that  sense  allure  ; 

For  thee  yon  azure  glories  burn, 
Say,  mortal!  ail  thou  poor? 

The  hopes  that  shine  along  life's  path, 
To  cheer  thee,  too,  are  given ; 

The  Star  that  points  the  wanderer's  way, 
Shall  lead  thee  to  thy  heaven. 

And  while  lamented  by  the  great, 

The  rich  repose  in  clay, 
Thou,  too,  wilt  seek  thy  final  bed, 

And  slumber  sweet  as  they, 


WILLIAM  B.  TAPPAN.  93 


"  In  the  town  of  Xunda,  (Alleghany  county,)  upon  the  fann 
of  Benjamin  Earl,  Esq.  has  been  found  a  large  number  of  human 
bones,  in  the  last  stage  of  decay.  They  were  but  very  slightly 
covered  with  earth,  and  appeared  to  have  been  promiscuously  de- 
posited, without  any  regard  to  order,  in  a  field  containing  proba- 
bly thirty  acres.  The  great  size  of  some  of  the  thigh  bones 
denotes  men  above  the  ordinary  stature,  and  the  equality  and 
uniformity  of  their  decay  prove  that  they  were  all  buried  at  the 
same  time.  At  what  period,  and  by  what  cause,  they  were  left 
there,  is  impossible  to  determine.  We  may  conjecture  that  they 
are  the  remains  of  brave  warriors  who  fell  on  the  field  of  glory — 
but  whose  exploits  have  died  away  in  the  lapse  of  past  ages,  ne- 
ver to  be  heard  of  more." 

Yes  !  they  have  fled — the  war-whoop's  call 

Shall  animate  no  more  to  glory  ; 
The  trophies  of  the  grave  are  all 

Remain,   Oblivion  shrouds  their  story. 

O,  Glory!  what  art  thou  I — a  dream, 

That  cheats  the  slumberer,  yet  believing  i 

Why  dost  thou,  faithless  phantom!  seem 
To  us  so  beauteous,  yet  deceiving? 

Short-sighted  man!  the  toil  is  thine 
To  win  the  dizzy  heights  of  danger; 

The  goal  achieved,  thou  wilt  repine, 
Thy  heart  to  calm  repose  a  stranger. 

And  thou!  the  child  of  feeling,  who 

Perhaps  hast  wandered  to  Hope's  bower, 

And  of  the  roses  plucked  a  few, 
To  cheer  thee  in  the  lonelv  hour— 


94  THE  POEMS  OF 

Depart! — for  tears  will  nurture  not 

The  fragile  flower  of  morn  to  bless  thee  \ 

It  dies,  alas!   and  on  the  spot 

The  night-shade  rises  to  caress  thee. 


SONG  OF  THE  MARINER. 

We  go  down  on  the  face  of  the  waters,  the  Sea, 
The  glorious  boundless  Sea  is  ours! 
But  though  on  the  wings  of  the  morning  we  flee, 
Can  we  hide  from  the  eye  of  Hix,  whose  decree 
Is  heard  on  the  main  when  the  night-storm  lowers  ? 

We  go  down  on  the  face  of  the  waters,  there 
Unimagined,  fearful  secrets  are  known  ; 
'Tis  ours  to  dwell  in  the  lightning's  glare, 
'Tis  ours  to  be  rocked  by  the  wave  of  despair  : 
God  holds  the  deep,  His  ways  are  unknown. 

We  go  down  on  the  face  of  the  waters,  tell, 
Tell,  is  the  God  of  the  billows  the  same 
Ye  worship,  who  thunders,  and  who  can  dispel 
With  a  smile  the  evil,  whose  doings  are  well  ? 
If  thus,  we  his  servants  will  call  on  his  name. 

We  go  down  on  the  face  of  the  waters,  say 
Is  there  place  for  the  mariner,  an  altar  for  him, 
To  render  oblations  of  sacrifice ? — mav 


WILLIAM  B.  TAPPAX.  95 

The  dweller  in  ships  to  Jehovah  pray, 
When  the  heart  is  melted  and  the  eye  is  dim? 

"We  adore  the  God  whose  will  hath  spread 
Sprinkled  with  gems,  yon  canopy  ; 
In  whose  hands  are  the  ashes  of  the  dead, 
"Whose  majesty  lightens  ocean's  bed  ; 
Where  the  contrite  is  He  surely  will  be. 

Then  ye  who  in  temples  made  by  hands 
"Worship,  forget  not  the  mariner  far, 
"When  borne  by  the  billow  to  distant  lands, 
In  perils  benighted  on  folly's  sands, 
Deliver  him,  Master! — shine  Bethlehem's  Star! 


VERSIFICATION  OF  AX  EXTRACT  FROM  THE 
ITALIAN. 

I  asked  of  Time  whose  was  the  name 

That  here  in  ruins  lay  ; 
"What  were  his  deeds  of  lofty  fame  ? 

Time  hastened  on  his  way. 

To  Fame  I  spake — "  O  thou!  to  whom 

All  that  survive  belong" — 
Fame  fled  in  sorrow  from  that  tomb, 

Hushed  was  her  trumpet  song. 


96  THE  POEMS  OF 

Grieved,  then,  I  turned  and  saw  the  form 

Of  One  that  walked  alone  j 
The  Spirit  of  Destruction's  storm, 

He  strode  from  stone  to  stone. 

"  Tell  me!  for  thou  alone  hast  power, 
For  whom  arose  this  shrine ?" 

In  voice  as  of  the  crumbling'  tower 
Oblivion  said — 'tis  mine! 


THE  MANIAC. 

Those  eyes  that  beam  so  beauteous  bright, 
And  all  the  heaven  within  declare, 
May  set  ere  long  in  starless  night 
Or  kindle  with  demoniac  glare. 

The  thrilling  voice,  oft  heard  to  bless, 
Whose  accents  memory  would  prolong, 
May  tell  the  story  of  distress, 
Or  warble  sorrow's  broken  song. 

That  heart  where  feeling  holds  its  throne, 
Which  fondly  beats  to  love  and  me, 
Cold  as  the  unsunned  marble  stone, 
May  he  in  frigid  apathy. 

Lord  of  all  good!  thy  fiat  spake 

To  birth,  the  blessings  that  I  have  ; — 


WILLIAM  B.  TAPPAN.  07 

Lord  of  all  worlds !  'tis  thou  canst  take 
Again,  the  boon  that  mercy  gave  : 

Take  all,  but  hear  my  earnest  prayer, 
'Tis  breathed  in  tears,  reject  it  not, — 
Take  all — but  let  me  never  share 
The  hopeless,  soulless  Maniac's  lot. 


MARY  AT  THE  SEPULCHRE. 

u  Jesus  saith  unto  her,  Mary.  She  turned  herself,  and  saith 
unto  him,  Rahboni;  which  is  to  say,  Muster.  Jesus  said  unto 
her,  Touch  me  not ;  for  I  am  not  yet  ascended  to  my  Father  ;  but 
go  to  my  brethren,  and  say  unto  them,  I  ascend  unto  my  Father 
and  your  Father  ;  and  to  my  God  and  your  God."  John,  xx. 
16,  17. 

Jerusalem  is  silent  now, 

Her  priests  and  warriors  sleep  ; 
And  dimly  on  yon  vaulted  brow, 

The  stars  their  vigils  keep : 
Unheeded  is  that  voiceless  gloom — 

That  stillness  has  no  dread 
To  her  that  weeping  seeks  the  tomb 

Of  the  beloved  Dead. 

The  morn  on  Zion's  lonely  hill, 

Has  cast  no  beams  abroad  ; 
Yet  Mary's  footstep  lingers  still — 

She  goes  to  seek  her  Lord: 


98  THE  POEMS  OF 

Why  stands  she  wondering' ? — Hands  unknown 

Have  burst  the  shroud  and  pall; 
And  rolled  away  the  sealed  stone, 

And  rent  the  prison  wall. 

Jesus,  the  Dead,  she  sees  no  more, 

And  weeps  in  fond  alarm, — 
O,  shall  she  not  upon  him  pour 

Her  spices,  myrrh  and  balm  ? 
Blessed  One !  thy  love  and  faith  are  great, 

Is  not  thy  triumph  near  ? 
Yea,  He  thou  seek'st  doth  on  thee  wait, 

Mary!  behold  Him  here. 


TO  A  YOUTHFUL  FRIEND. 

In  life's  early  vision  when  bliss  mantles  high, 

And  the  morning'  of  pleasure  beams  cloudless  and 

pure ; 
When  fond  expectation  illumines  the  eye, 
And  hope  to  the  bosom  seems  brilliant  as  sure  ; 

How  numerous  the  perils  that  ambush  the  way! 
What  dangers  to  threaten,  what  syrens  to  snare ! 
And  he  that  in  sunshine  hath  welcomed  the  day, 
At  evening1  is  wrapt  in  the  cloud  of  despair. 

For  they  that  in  sympathy  now  would  adore  thee, 
While  the  cup  of  prosperity,  sparkling,  is  thine  ; 


WILLIAM  B.  TAPPAX.  90 

Ungrateful,  will  ere  long-,  in  mockery  smile  o'er  thee, 
When  the  sun  of  thy  pleasure  in  mists  shall  decline. 

And  if  unexperienced  thy  heart  is  deceived, 
And  thou  in  oblivion  thy  anguish  would' st  steep  ; 
If  the  faithless  hath  pierced  thee,  and  those  once 

believed 
Unheeding*  their  plig-htings  have  left  thee  to  weep  ; 

O  then,  thou  benighted  and  lone,  look  afar 
To  Him  that  can  soften  the  wounds  he  has  made  5 
The  Guide  of  thy  youth  who  alone  is  the  Star, 
Directing*  to  day -beams  unsullied  by  shade. 


O  THOU  THAT  PLEAD  ST  WITH  PITYING  LOVE. 

O  THor  that  plead' st  with  pitying1  love, 

How  large  that  love  and  free, 
When  sad  and  wounded  here,  we  prove 

There's  rest  alone  in  Thee! 

Poor  wanderers  tired,  bereft  of  all, 

To  sin  and  bondage  sold, 
We  strive,  till  freed  from  Satan's  thrall, 

We  're  brought  to  Jesus'  fold. 

With  fervour  at  the  sinner's  heart 
Thou  plead' st  to  enter  in, 


100  THE  POEMS  OF 

And  there  the  kindly  balm  impart, 
That  heals  the  wounds  of  sin. 

"  Open  the  door  to  me,  my  spouse, 

My  love  is  ever  true  5 
My  head  with  drops  of  midnight  flows, 

My  locks  are  filled  with  dew." 

Who  shall  not,  Lord,  with  love  adore, 
When  thus  Jehovah  pleads  ? 

What  bosom  will  deny  the  door 
When  Jesus  intercedes  ? 

Enter  this  heart  my  Saviour,  God! 

To  thee  subdue  this  breast ; 
Shed  thy  renewing  grace  abroad, 

And  be  my  constant  guest. 


DEATH  OF  GENERAL  STARK. 

He  died, — he  fell  in  the  winter  of  years, 

On  the  couch  of  the  tomb  he  has  pillowed  his  head  ; 

And  fled  has  sorrow  and  fled  have  fears, 

For  sorrow  and  fears  dwell  not  with  the  dead. 

On  the  green  hill-side  they  made  his  grave, 
There  the  oak,  the  tree  of  his  country  grows ; 


WILLIAM  B.  TAPPAX.  101 

His  bed  is  holy,  'tis  the  bed  of  the  brave, 
His  slumber  is  calm — 'tis  the  warrior's  repose. 

And  sweet  be  thy  visions,  thy  slumbers  profound! 
For  bright  is  the  halo  that  circles  thy  brow  5 
In  the  thickest  of  battle  thy  place  was  found, 
The  wreath  is  deathless  that  decks  thee  now. 

To  thy  country,  the  prime  of  thy  manhood  was  given, 
'Mid  the  foremost  thy  shining  sword  was  drawn  \ 
Thou  stood' st  a  pillar — approving  Heaven 
Beheld  and  put  the  foe  to  scorn. 

"When  the  palsy  of  years  had  scathed  thy  form, 
And  thy  head  was  crowned  with  the  snow  of  age, 
When  poverty  came,  thou  met'st  the  storm, 
And  in  greatness  of  soul  defied  its  rage. 

The  traveller  sought  thy  desolate  cot, 

And  he  wept  o'er  the  wreck  of  valour  there  ; 

The  fire  of  youth  had  left  thee  not, 

Thy  country,  thy  idol,  was  still  thy  prayer. 

Adieu  to  the  dead! — the  spirits  of  those 
"Who  soared  on  the  battle,  see!  they  vanish  away  ; 
The  warriors  have  gone  to  the  land  of  repose, 
Our  fathers,  our  fathers! — O  where  are  they  ? 


i2 


102  TTIE  ROE3IS  OF 


THE  REDBREAST. 

In  the  Gothic  church,  at  a  sea-port  in  the  East  Riding  of  York- 
shire, (England)  immediately  after  the  sermon,  and  as  the  minis- 
ter was  repeating  the  usual  subsequent  prayer,  "  May  the  peace  of 
God  which  passeth  all  understanding/*  £ce.  a  redbreast,  that  had 
taken  shelter  in  the  sanctuary  from  the  inclemency  of  the  season, 
poured  forth,  as  if  by  inspiration,  such  a  sweetly  plaintive  song, 
that  the  church  resounded  with  its  vibrations. 

Beautiful  bird  !   corn's!  thou  to  pour, 
— Wanderer  from  thy  native  plain, 
Thy  simple  yet  melodious  strain 

In  walls  where  mortals  God  adore  ■ 

Why  warble  here  the  plaintive  lay 
That  swells  and  dies  along*  the  air, 
And  mingling*  with  the  voice  of  prayer, 

Bears  thought  in  ecstasy  away  ; 

Oh,  could  we,  guileless  one !  like  thee, 
Our  bosoms  thus  attuned  to  love — 
Waft  artless  orisons  above, 

How  pure  would  our  devotions  be  ! 

Nor  vocal  hymn,  nor  organ's  swell 
That  richly  rolls  upon  the  ear, 
Is,  as  thy  untaught  thrillings,  dear, 

If  it  heart-worship  do  not  tell. 


WILLIAM  B.  TAPPAN.  103 


THE  CONVICT  BOY. 

He  was  a  father's  hope  ;  on  him 

A  mother  oft  had  cast  the  eye 
Of  secret  pride,  and  though  now  dim 

With  blinding'  tears  of  anguish,  1 
Saw  that  her  gaze  was  on  him  still ; 

Still  in  her  throbbing  heart's  warm  core, 
She  that  has  borne  his  weakness,  will 

Shelter  her  lost  one.     Oh  not  more 
Clings  ivy  to  the  fostering  tree, 
Woman!  than  pity  clings  to  thee  : 
Her  boy  may  mock  her  hopes,  yet  ever 

As  he  treads  Guilt's  deceptive  wild, 
By  all  else  shunned,  the  mother  never 

Can  shun — for  is  he  not  her  child  ? 

He  stood  before  me  in  yon  hall 

Of  inquisition,  held  on  crime  ; 
He  stood,  a  fair  and  lovely  boy 

In  aspect ;  one  whose  early  prime 
Blossomed  with  hopes  of  peace  and  joy. 

I  saw  the  big  tear  frequent  fall 

Down  his  wan  cheek — it  might  be  so — 
My  soul  was  moved — in  truth  I  know 
It  was  the  tear  of  penitence! 

Remorse,  regret  and  bitter  shame 
Stood  on  his  youthful  brow  j  the  sense 

Of  his  misdeeds,  had  vanquished  quite 
His  bosom's  once  proud  stubbornness  : 

I  said,  that  boy's  now  sullied  name 


104  THE  POEMS  OF 

Himself  will  yet  redeem;  away 

Shall  flee  this  morning'  cloud,  and  bright 
And  pure  will  be  his  future  day  : 
The  aged  father  yet  will  bless 
A  son  restored, — the  glad  caress, 
A  mother's  fond  caress,  shall  well 
Declare  what  lips  can  never  tell. 

That  lovely  boy — that  only  son — 

That  penitent,  whose  tender  years 
Pleading  for  the  misguided  one, 

Called  not  for  rigour,  but  for  tears — 
That  child  was  hurled  to  the  cursed  den 

Of  midnight  thieves,  of  convicts  foul ; 

Of  those  that  wear  the  murderer's  scowl ; 
Fell  miscreants,  that  with  forms  of  men, 

Are  demons  in  iniquity  : 
Inquired  stern  Justice — "and  why  not?" 

Perhaps  'twas  well,  and  yet  to  me, 
On  Mercy's  hem  it  seemed  a  blot. 


TO  THE  NEW- YEAR. 

Thou  new-born  year!  thou  span  yet  undefined, 
Portion  of  time  unknown,  I  fain  would  greet 

Thy  opening  dawn  with  salutation  kind, 

And  would,  reluctant,  fleeting  guest!  entreat 

With  us  soj  ourning,  yet  a  longer  stay ; 

Or  wilt  thou  like  thy  parent  haste  away  ? 


WILLIAM  B.  TAPPAX.  105 

Thou  new-born  year!  why  should  the  joyous  smile 
Of  reckless  riot,  usher  in  thy  name  ? 

And  why  should  dissipation  e'er  beguile 

The  sons  of  men,  when  Reason  would  proclaim 

Life  is  a  vapour,  hastening*  Time  recedes, 

Eternity  is  near  with  all  its  deeds! 

What  art  thou,  gliding*  portent!  but  the  note 

That  speak* st,  though  dumb,  existence5  passing 
knell } 

Thy  warning  strains  though  they  unheeded  float 
Along  our  passage,  to  the  traveller  tell 

"Depart,  poor  pilgrim,  leave  this  vale,  unbless'd, 

Arise,  ye  giddy,  this  is  not  your  rest.'5 

Vision  of  future  days,  fair  blooming  year ! 

Thou  evanescent!   soon,  alas,  thy  flight 
Shall  be  the  theme,  for  thou  wilt  disappear, 

Thou  too  wilt  slumber  in  the  iron  night 
Of  by-past  ages,  on  the  hoary  scroll 
Be  chronicled,  whose  page  none  may  unroll. 

Child  of  the  past, — herald  of  years  to  come, 
I  greet  thy  entrance,  for  thou  tellest  me 

In  accent  kind,  that  soon  my  reckoned  sum 
Of  months  will  be  fulfilled,  and  I  shall  be 

No  more  a  wanderer  in  a  sunless  way, 

Where  disappointment  droops  beneath  the  world's 
cold  rav. 


106  THE  POEMS  OF 


THE  HOUSE  OF  INDUSTRY. 

Go !  rear  the  dome  whose  portals  high. 
Gladly  receive  the  child  of  sorrow, 

Go!   wipe  the  tear  from  Misery's  eye, 
And  cheer  the  sad  with  hope  of  morrow. 

Go  thou,  whose  yet  untroubled  bed 

Ne'er  knew  the  midnight  burst  of  anguish  ; 

Go  where  the  dream  of  joy  has  fled, 
And  penury  is  left  to  languish. 

Affliction's  wave  thy  barque  may  whelm, 
And  tempests  shroud  thy  sun  of  pleasure  ; 

Then  let  Compassion  sit  at  helm, 
And  be  sweet  Charity  thy  treasure. 

Hear'st  thou  that  mother  ask  employ  ? 

She  strives  to  check  the  tear  that's  stealing1 ; 
Her  miseries  are  forgot — the  boy 

She  fondles,  stirs  that  fount  of  feeling". 

Yon  tim'rous  girl  implores  relief — 

Obtained — 0,  this  shall  sooth  your  sadness, 

Dear  helpless  parents!  banish  grief. 

Your  child  will  turn  that  grief  to  gladness/ 

I  covet  not  the  frozen  heart, 

There  never  throb  of  love  is  beating — 
That  bids  the  honest  poor,  depart! 

That  gives  not  Wretchedness  kind  greeting-. 


WILLIAM  B.  TAPPAX.  107 

When  active  Pity  forms  the  plan 

To  meliorate  rough  Fortune's  frowning", 

Oh  surely  then  we  see  the  Max, 

God's  noblest  work,  His  labour  crowning*. 


THE  MISSIONARY  S  GRAVE  IX  THE  DESERT. 

br  a  foreign  soil  he  sleeps, 

And  lowly  is  his  bed  : 
No  early  wild-flower  weeps 

Where  he  pillows  his  weary  head. 

By  stranger-hands  he  was  laid 

Where  the  Siroc  sweeps  the  mound ; 

Where  the  fierce  night-kings  invade 
The  solitude  profound. 

The  grief  of  a  tender  brother 
That  hillock  ne'er  has  known  ; 

The  tears  of  a  yearning  mother 
Ne'er  dropped  on  that  cold  stone. 

No  cenotaph  tells  his  worth, 
No  sculptured  wreaths  proclaim 

That  the  slumbering  herald  of  truth 
Has  gained  the  martyr's  name. 


108  THE  POEMS  OF 

But  the  heart  of  affection  true 
Has  sighed  o'er  the  sandy  wave  ; 

And  the  tears  of  the  wanderer  bedew 
The  Missionary's  lonely  grave. 


THE  SAILORS  HYMN. 

O  everlasting  viewless  God! 

Thou  rid'st  the  stormy  seas, 
And  thou  controllest  with  a  nod 

The  billow  and  the  breeze. 

Thy  powerful  arm  alone  can  save 

Thy  cliildren  on  the  deep  ; 
Can  bear  them  up  the  curling  wave, 

And  down  its  threatening  steep. 

Though  staunch  our  barque,  and  proud  her  way, 

Though  breezes  fill  the  sails, 
Yet,  Lord,  if  thou  art  not  our  stay 

The  Sailor's  courage  fails. 

Be  thou,  O  God,  our  kind  support, 

Our  earnest  hopes  fulfil ; 
On  the  wide  ocean  or  in  port, 

Be  thou  our  anchor  still. 

May  we  escape  the  dangerous  ground, 
And  while  thy  strength  we  feel, 


WILLIAM  B.  TAPPAN.  109 

Help  us  to  keep  each  timber  sound, 
With  grace  our  chosen  keel. 

And  O,  when  near  temptation's  shoal, 

No  beacon  shining  far, 
Cheer  thou  the  Sailor's  'nighted  soul 

With  Bethlehem's  holy  Star. 

Jesus!  our  helmsman,  unto  thee, 

We  look,  and  not  in  vain ; 
From  quicksands  thou  wilt  keep  us  free 
And  guide  us  o'er  the  main. 

And  soon, — life's  chequered  voyage  past, 
WThen  we  have  crossed  the  sea, — 

May  we,  all  hands,  be  found  at  last, 
Great  Captain!  safe  with  thee. 


OH  COME  SMILING  JUNE  ! 

Oh  come  smiling  June! 

In  beauty  arrayed ; 
Oh  come  and  bring1  with  thee, 

Young  Pleasure,  fair  maid  ; 
Oh  come  from  thy  mountain, 

Oh  come  from  thy  bower, 
Thou  queen  of  the  fountain, 

The  breeze  and  the  flower! 


110  THE  POEttS  OF 

Oh  come  smiling'  June  1 

Bid  the  meadows  rej  oice  ; 
With  Health  thy  companion, 

And  Labour  thy  choice  ; 
Where  lately  in  triumph 

Stern  winter  was  seen, 
Pomona  shall  mantle 

Her  livery  of  green. 

No  more  let  the  minstrel 

Sing  enraptured  of  May, 
Thy  beauties,  fair  season, 

Shall  waken  his  lay  ; 
Thy  morn  is  serener, 

And  brighter  thy  noon  ; 
Thy  evening*  more  lovely, 

Oh  come  smiling  Juxe  ! 


THE  BARBADOES  GIRL  TO  HER  LOVER. 

Thou'rt  gone,  and  all  of  life  has  fled  j 

Yet  I  grieve  not,  for  I 
Know  thou  saw'st  not  the  tears  I  shed, 

But  now  their  source  is  dry  ; 
Thou/rt  gone,  and  think'st  not  in  yon  climes 

Of  her  with  whom  thou'st  strayed 
At  evening,  in  the  walk  of  limes, 

And  'neath  the  mangrove's  shade. 


WILLIAM  B.  TAPPAN.  Ill 

Forgettest  thou  the  star-lit  night 

Thy  hand  in  mine  I  pressed? 
The  fire-fly*  shed  its  em'rald  light 

"Where  waved  the  corn-bird's  nest  :f 
The  flower  I  gave,  forgettest  thou  ? 

Thou  wor'st  it  on  thy  heart, — 
And  mine  believed  the  fond  false  vow 

That  we  should  never  part, 

What  is  to  thee  this  faded  form, 

And  cheek  now  sicklied  o'er  ? 
The  bounding  spirit — Ah,  the  worm 

Has  pierc'd  it  to  the  core  : 
I  can't  one  flattered  beauty  trace, — 

They  whisper — and  they  sigh — 
That  death's  hue  lingers  on  my  face, 

And  wildness  in  mine  eye. 

'Tis  well,  though  thou  unto  despair 

My  bosom's  hope  hast  given, 
And  hast  with  shades  of  bitter  care 

Darkened  my  all  of  heaven  ; 
I  do  forgive  thee,  often  yet 

For  thee  I  strive  to  pray: 
I  do  forgive — but  to  forget ! — 

My  broken  heart  soon  may. 


*  This  insect  of  the  West  Indies,  when  disturbed,  shoots  from 
its  eyes  two  streams  of  green  intense  light. 

•f  To  secure  her  eggs  from  intruders,  the  corn-bird  suspends 
her  nest  by  a  twisted  cord  of  creepers  from  the  outermost  limb  of 
the  great  trees — Six  Month's  Residence  in  the  West  Indies, 


112  THE  POEMS  OF 


BIRTH  OF  DUELLING. 

Moloch  had  fallen  and  Satan  wept 

To  see  his  shrines  alone  ; 
His  rites  in  dark  oblivion  slept 

And  worshipless  his  throne; 
Around  him  thronged  the  peers  of  hell 

Intent  on  curst  debate, 
Yet  nought  could  Satan's  ire  dispel 

Or  sooth  the  monarch's  hate. 

'Till  Belial,  a  tall  fiend,  arose, 

And  urged  his  fell  design, — 
And  triumph,  Chief !  he  said,  thy  foes 

Shall  own  a  mightier  shrine  ; 
"What  though  the  vale  of  Hinnom  boasts 

No  more  its  thousands  dead, 
And  Tophet  sees  no  more  its  hosts 

Through  fire  and  slaughter  led : 

On  Moloch's  ruin,  lo!  appears 

A  new-descended  god, 
AVhose  robe  is  gemmed  with  orphan's  tears, 

AVhose  sceptre  reeks  with  blood ; 
Altars  shall  rise  in  every  clime 

To  this  divinity, 
And  as  he  hastens,  hoary  Time 

Shall  untold  votaries  see. 

He  spake,  with  shouts  the  conclave  rang, 
Hell  trembled  with  acclaim  ; 


WILLIAM  B.  TAPPAN.  113 

A  god,  a  god  descends,  they  sang, 

Let  Honour  be  his  name! 
Columbia,  willing,  owns  his  sway, 

And  for  her  Proud  and  Brave 
He  digs,  impatient  for  his  prey, 

The  Duellist's  cold  grave. 


MY  BOYS  GRAVE. 

We  visited  thy  grave,  my  child! 

Last  night,  thy  mother  and  I : 
We  saw  it  clad  with  spring-flowers  wild,— 

The  bed  where  thou  dost  lie. 
We  thought  of  all  that's  bright  and  fair, 

As  false  and  fleeting  too  ; 
We  looked  on  that  grassy  turf,  and  there 

We  saw  that  Death  is  true. 

And  Memory  told  of  every  smile, 

Each  look  was  dear  as  ever  : 
Time  may  a  mother's  grief  beguile, 

Blot  out  that  look  ? — O,  never! 
'Tis  her's  within  the  heart's  recess, 

To  all  but  Heaven  unknown — 
To  cherish  its  image,  and  to  bless 

The  spotless  cherub  flown. 

We  had  marked  thy  beauties  stealing  on, 

As  we  nourished  the  tender  flower  ; 

k2 


114  THE  POEMS  OF 

We,  trembling,  loved  our  little  one, 
For  frail  is  childhood's  hour  : 

And  as  we  kissed  thy  infant  brow, 
And  clasped  thee  oft,  the  fear 

Of  parting-  wrung  our  bosoms,  but  now 
'Tis  over.     Thou  art  not  here. 

Our  dreams  of  thee  were  gay,  my  boy! 

We  have  wept  those  visions  fled ; 
But  now  the  healing  tears  of  joy 

Are  given  to  the  dead  : 
From  dying  friends,  from  griefs  and  all 

Of  being's  rude  alarms, 
Thus  free — who  can  lament  the  call 

Sweet  one,  to  thy  Father's  arms  ? 


THE  PROPHECY  OF  NOAH. 

And  he  said,  Cursed  be  Canaan,  a  servant  of  servants  shall  he 
be  unto  his  brethren.  And  he  said,  blessed  be  the  Lord  God  of 
Shem,  and  Canaan  shall  be  his  servant.  God  shall  enlarge  Ja- 
pheth,  and  he  shall  dwell  in  the  tents  of  Shem,  and  Canaan  shall 
be  his  servant.— Genesis  ix.  25,  26,  27. 

The  billows  no  more  on  the  mountain-tops  slept, 
No  longer  a  world  in  its  agony  wept ; 
With  his  waves  had  abated  the  wrath  of  the  Lord, 
And  the  rainbow  looked  out  where  of  late  gleamed 
the  sword. 


WILLIAM  B.  TAPPAN.  115 

Of  the  thousands  that  scoffed  was  there  none  to  tell 

now 
How  mighty  His  vengeance  when  kindled  His  brow. 
The  gay  and  the  reckless,  and  those  vexed  with  cares, 
The  young  in  their  wine-cups,  the  man  of  gray  hairs, 
The  noble  in  greatness,  the  maiden  in  pride, 
Alike  met  the  besom — they  slept  'neath  the  tide! 
The  Patriarch  lingered  on  Ararat  still, 
The  light  of  Jehovah  yet  waved  on  that  hill ; 
And  dear  to  his  heart  in  that  wilderness-world, 
Was  the  cloud  of  rich  mercy  that  over  him  curled  : 
And  in  vision  he  spake,  while  its  hallowed  power 
Woke  the  soul  of  the  seer  in  prophecy's  hour: 
A  deed  of  the  night,  Ham!  was  known  unto  thee, 
And  Canaan  subdued  to  his  brethren  shall  be. 
For  Ham  is  poured  out  the  red  vial  of  wrath, 
O'er  the  portion  of  Canaan  hath  passed  the  fell  scath  ; 
On  the  shores  of  the  Ethiop  is  gathered  the  flood, 
Come  not  on  my  sight,  O  ye  visions  of  blood! 
Why  floats  on  mine  ear  that  harrowing  cry  5 
With  the  crime-tainted  breeze  why  mingles  the  sigh' 
'Tis  the  groan  of  the  captive,  the  shriek  of  the  slave, 
Ah!  he  lays  down  his  fetters  and  stripes  in  the  grave ! 
To  the  land  of  the  South  speeds  the  merciless  barque, 
'Tis  not,  O  my  God!  thy  delivering  ark! — 
It  comes  from  the  white  Christian-trafficker's  clime, 
And  the  Cross  of  the  Innocent  wavers  o'er  crime  ; 
That  banner  floats  high  on  the  death-scented  gale, 
From  that  sepulchre-barque  comes  the  prisoner's 

wail, 
The  cowardly  taunt  is  that  African's  food, 
His  tears  are  for  thirst  and  his  aliment  blood  ; 


116  THE  POEMS  OF 

Recollections  of  home  with  its  treasures  pass  o'er  him, 
The  long-  lingering-  watching-s  of  grief  are  before  him, 
Madly  he  rushes  to  where  the  dark  billow 
Yields  to  the  wretched  its  cold  dreamless  pillow  ; 
He  sinks — an  immortal  forever  hath  flown, 
To  wander  away  from  the  lig^ht  of  the  throne ; 
God!  on  me  and  on  mine  thou  hast  scattered  thy  dew, 
Let  thy  rainbow  of  love  beam  on  Africa  too! 

Look  afar,  my  First  born!  to  the  reg-ions  that  he 
Luxuriant  and  fair  'neath  the  young-  eastern  sky  ; 
Whose  rivers  roll  onward  their  silvery  flood 
Through  vales  that  are  lovely  as  g-ardens  of  God  ; 
The  birth-place  of  blessing's,  uncounted  and  free, 
The  land  of  rich  promise  I  give  unto  thee  ; 
For  possession  to  thee  and  thy  children,  to  them 
An  inheritance  worthy  the  offspring'  of  Shem. 
Yet  not  for  the  plains  where  fertility  teems 
In  abundance,  surpassing"  the  husbandman's  dreams; 
Nor  yet  for  the  valley,  or  cedar-clad  mountain, 
Or  streams  that  g-ush  out  from  many  a  fountain, 
Or  rivers  that  water  the  wide  plain  of  palms; 
Not  for  these.  O  my  son — of  decay  are  these  charms, 
Do  I  bless  yon  possessions,  for  now  to  mine  eye 
The  dim  flood  of  ages  rolls  fearfully  by — 
I  see  a  Deliverer,  beneath  Syrian  skies 
I  behold  offered  up  the  One  Sacrifice! 
Lo,  blessing's  poured  out  from  obscure  Galilee 
In  floods,  shall  all  nations  enrich,  yea,  1  see 
King's,  warriors,  and  people  of  lang'uag-es  far, 
Bow  down  to  His  sceptre  who  rides  by  name  Jah! 
Hasten  thou,  day  of  wonder!  break  out  holy  morn, 
When  the  Uncreate  Godhead,  a  babe  shall  be  born! 


WILLIAM  B.  TAPPAX.  117 

God  shall  bless  and  enlarge  thee,  O  Japheth!  and 
thou 
Awhile  shalt  repose  beneath  Shem's  fruitful  bough  ; 
To  thee  and  to  thine  the  portion  shall  be 
Of  lands  stretching-  far  to  the  uttermost  sea ; 
Beyond  the  tall  mountain,  whose  proudest  cliff  sees 
His  base  idly  washed  by  blue  Euphrates ; 
Even  there  where  the  sun  on  the  wave's  yielding 

breast, 
Descends  in  the  eve  of  his  glory  to  rest. 
Regions  well  favoured,  my  son!   shall  be  thine  ; 
Hail  shores  of  the  blest!  where  beneath  his  own  vine 
Each  one  shall  repose.     Hail  land  of  the  Free! 
And  tell  me,  my  spirit!  what  more  wouldst  thou  see  ? 
Why  opens  to  vision  the  vista  of  years  ? 
Ah,  why  to  one  robed  in  clay-vestment  appears 
Fruition  of  blessings  to  men  yet  unknown  ? 
Sure  the  light  that  waves  round  thee  is  caught  from 

the  throne  ; 
The  cloud  big  with  mercies  already  is  o'er  thee; 
A  world  disenthralled  and  redeemed  is  before  thee, 
Arise,  O  my  spirit!  thou  seest  the  birth 
Of  glories,  surviving  this  heaven  and  earth ! 


118  THE  POEMS  OF 


"  Brother:'— Here  were  we  bom.  These  forests  are  made  dear 
to  us  by  the  recollections  of  childhood.  Where  can  we  find 
again  the  pleasant  place  of  our  youth  ?  Here  are  our  burial 
grounds.  Can  we  say  to  the  bones  of  our  fathers,  Rise  and  go 
with  us  into  a  foreign  land  "?  Speech  of  an  Indian  Chief. 

Shall  the  warrior  flee  his  home? 
Shall  the  Chief  a  stranger  roam? 
Will  the  white  man  in  his  wrath 
Chase  the  Indian  from  his  path? 
Wanderer  from  his  lakes  removed, 
Exile  from  the  shades  he  loved? 
WTho  shall  hurl  the  ready  spear } 
Who  transfix  the  flying"  deer? 
Who  the  buffalo  will  meet, 
Hunted  from  his  dark  retreat? 
Who  shall  guide  the  swift  canoe  ? 
Barb  the  arrow,  bend  the  yew? 
Will  the  Spirit  of  the  mountain, 
Guardian  of  the  vale  and  fountain, 
Give  him  victory  when  afar, 
Spoil  and  glory  in  the  war  ? 
Shall  he  leave  his  father's  clay  ? 
To  the  hallowed  ashes  say: 
Rise!  forsake  your  native  bed — 
Rise — the  Desolate  have  fled! 


WILLIAM  B.  TAPPAX.  119 


I  CANNOT  BUT  SIGH. 

1  cannot  but  sigh,  when  the  friends  of  my  youth, 
Who  repaid  with  fond  ardour  the  love  that  I  gave, 
Who  tendered  their  pledge  on  the  altar  of  truth, 
Forgetful  return  to  their  rest  in  the  grave. 

I  cannot  but  sigh  when  the  visions  of  joy 
That  rose  on  gay  childhood  and  sought  to  allure, 
Like  the  dreams  of  the  wretched  but  smiled  to  de- 
stroy, 
Or  adorn  the  bright  sketchings  they  failed  to  ensure. 

I  cannot  but  sigh  while  reviewing  the  years, 
When  hope  in  this  bosom  beat  ardent  and  high: 

0  Memory!   what  art  thou?  a  record  of  tears, 
Of  meteor-enjoyments  that  sparkle  and  die. 

1  cannot  but  sigh  when  futurity's  scroll 
Unfolding,  gives  sign  of  no  pleasure  in  store  ; 
When  regret  for  the  past  still  remains  on  the  soul, 
While  the  present  is  lost  in  aspiring  to  more. 

I  cannot  but  sigh  when  heart-stricken  I  scan 
The  victims  of  misery  that  float  down  the  stream; 
And  even  recounting  the  bliss  of  frail  man, 
I  cannot  but  sigh,  for  that  bliss  is  a  dream. 


120  THE  POEMS  OF 


THE  CAPTIVE  JEWESS. 

A  Jewish  lady  of  exquisite  beauty  had  with  her  husband  been 
taken  captive  by  the  Saracen  commander  of  a  fleet  cruising  on 
the  coast  of  Palestine.  The  brutal  captain  being  about  to  com- 
mit violence  on  her  person,  she  called  to  her  husband,  who  was 
within  hearing,  but  in  chains,  and  asked  him  in  Hebrew,  whether 
they  who  were  drowned  in  the  sea  should  revive  at  the  resurrec- 
tion of  the  dead.  He  replied  in  the  words  of  Psalm  Ixviii.  22: 
"  The  Lord  said,  I  will  bring  again  from  Bashan,  I  will  bring 
my  people  again  from  the  depths  of  the  sea."  Upon  which  she 
immediately  threw  herself  into  the  sea,  and  was  drowned. 

Though  ne'er  for  thee  on  Shinar's  plain, 

Is  reared  the  sculptured  urn  ; 
Though  Judah's  harp  ne'er  swells  the  strain, 

Nor  Salem's  daughters  mourn: 

Though  ne'er  the  minstrel's  lyre  of  wo 

Shall  of  thy  virtues  tell  ; 
Though  ne'er  the  dirge  in  numbers  slow 

Shall  hymn  thy  parting  knell: 

Yet  softly  rests  thy  weary  head, 

Where  ocean's  flowerets  bloom  ; 
Beneath  the  deep  thy  coral  bed 

Is  Virtue's  hallowed  tomb. 


And  oft  when  eve's  pale  star  alone 
In  sadness  dims  the  wave, 

The  lonely  surge  will  gently  moan 
Its  requiem  o'er  thy  grave. 


■WILLIAM  B.  TAPPAN.  121 

Then  rest  in  peace !  and  when  no  more 

The  troubled  billows  sleep, 
The  Lord  Jehovah  shall  restore 

And  bring*  thee  from  the  deep. 


TO  THE  SENSITIVE  PLANT. 

Thou  lovely  blushing*  flower! 

In  sweets  arrayed — 
Queen  of  a  short-lived  hour, 

Why  thus  afraid ? 

Emblem  of  modesty, 

Thou  shrink'st  with  dread; 

If  we  but  g-aze  on  thee, 
Thou  hid'st  thy  head. 

Type  of  the  cultured  mind, 

With  feeling  blest, 
Thou  fliest  the  touch  unkind, 

Rudely  imprest. 

Longing*  for  added  life, 

Dost  thou  not  know 
>Tis  but  a  scene  of  strife — 

A  dream  of  wo } 

Content  thee,  floweret !  few 
Are  boasted  years; 


122  THE  POEMS  OF 

And  frequent  as  thy  dew, 
Are  youthful  tears. 

Like  thee,  with  morn  we  smile, 
And  pleasure  breathe  ; 

But  languid,  droop  ere  while, 
And  weep  at  eve. 

Yet  with  new  impulse  strong", 

May  I  from  thee 
Learn  to  aspire,  and  long" 

For  immortality. 


THE  AFRICAN  CONVERT. 

Here  was  a  human  being  who  had  been  made  to  drain  the  cup 
of  misery  to  its  very  dregs  by  the  wickedness  of  his  fellow  men  ; 
and  yet  that  very  wickedness,  by  tearing  him  from  his  native  land, 
had  placed  him  within  the  Gospel  sound,  and  thus  worked  out 
for  him  a  far  more  exceeding  and  eternal  weight  of  glory  than  all 
the  principalities  and  powers  of  this  world  could  bestow.—  Tales 
of  an  American  Landlord. 

They  have  torn  thee  from  thy  native  soil, 

And  girt  thee  with  the  chain  ; 
Of  bones  and  sinews  made  their  spoil — 

Can  blood  wash  out  that  stain? 
They  have  scoffed  at  all  thy  bitter  grief, 

And  mocked  thee  in  thy  need; 
Yea,   from  despair  withheld  relief, — 

God  frowns  upon  the  deed. 


WILLIAM  B.  TAPPAN.  123 

Yet,   foul  though  be  that  damning  blot, 

That  crime,  accursed  of  Heaven, 
To  thee,  sad  one — they  knew  it  not — 

Mercy  and  peace  are  given; 
For  thou  that  wast  in  thraldom  bound, 

That  grace  do  thou  adore — 
Thy  heart  subdued,  hast  ransom  found; 

In  Christ  a  slave  no  more. 

Unto  that  Power  bend  thou  the  knee 

AVho  saw  thee  in  thy  blood; 
And  through  wild  griefs  conducted  thee 

To  find  repose  in  God. 
The  cup  of  anguish  thou  hast  shared, 

Though  full,   was  mixed  by  Love; 
O,   what  are  stripes  or  death,  compared 

With  crowns  of  life  above! 


THE  FLOWER  OF  LEBANON* 

Ix  Lebanon  the  floweret  bloomed, 

With  native  charms  arrayed, 
The  skies  of  Eden  lent  it  hue, 

And  Ascalon  the  shade; 
The  breeze  of  Sharon  o'er  it  sighed, 

It  wept  in  evening's  shower; 
The  sunbeam  woke,  while  Hermon's  dew 

Impearled  the  beauteous  flower. 


124  THE  POEMS  OF 

How  proudly  rose  its  graceful  stem, 

Like  Shinar's  clustering*  vine, 
Queen  of  Eng-edi's  pleasant  vale, 

Fair  flower  of  Palestine! 
Whither  has  now  its  beauty  flown, 

Oh,  where  the  rich  perfume  ? 
Why  should  the  lovely  floweret  fade, 

Why  dies  its  early  bloom  ? 

The  prophet,  Lord!  beholds  no  more 

Thy  flower  its  sweets  disclose — 
The  maids  of  Syria  pass  away, 

They  shun  the  drooping*  rose; 
Return !  ye  g*enial  suns,  return, 

Ye  dews  of  heaven  revive; 
Breathe,   O  ye  zephyrs!  on  this  stem, 

And  bid  the  floweret  live. 


I  faix  would  know  if  she  who  lately  fled 
Far  from  this  dream  of  sad  reality, 
Whose  mortal  shroud,  inurned  with  the  dead, 
Recks  not  of  that  which  drinks  eternity, — 
I  fain  would  know  if  she,  the  happy  one, 
Forg-etting*  self,  in  retrospection's  glance 
Returns  not  fondly  to  the  scenes  well  known, 
And  quits  her  heaven  awhile,  to  enjoy  the  pleasing- 
trance  ? 


WILLIAM   B.  TAPPAX.  125 

For  when  the  spirit,  borne  on  wings  of  bliss, 

Seeks  the  glad  confines  of  empyrion  sky, 

Some  tender  fibre  binds  her  yet  to  this 

Dear  spot: — somewhat  of  earth  she  bears  on  high; 

The  object,  here  beloved,  is  loved  in  heaven: 

The  graces  that  have  charmed  once,  fade  not  there ; 

To  her,  to  sooth  the  sojourner  'tis  given, 

And  they  who  stay  to  weep,  are  the  departed's  care. 

For  something-  whispered,  when  I  saw  her  die, 
"  Thy  friend  departs  not — she  will  hover  near," — 
Yes,  and  the  smile  that  lingered  in  that  eye, 
Assured  this  heart  she  would  its  anguish  cheer. 
And  I  believe,  for  while  at  night  I  wept 
Affection's  tribute  to  affection  gone, 
And  fancy  sadly  hovered  where  she  slept, 
And  widowed  tears  dropt  on  the  cold  moist  stone^ 

Meth ought  some  presence — sure  it  was  my  love- 
Unseen,  breathed  gilead  on  my  festering  smart; 
L'nheard,  spake  consolation  to  my  soul, — 
Upon  my  grief  poured  solace  from  above, 
And  bidding  him,   once  broken,  to  be  whole, 
Left  resignation  in  my  wounded  heart. 


126  THE  POEMS  OF 


WAKE  ISLES  OF  THE  SOUTH! 

Written  November  1819,  on  occasion  of  the  departure  from  the 
United  States  of  the  first  Missionary  band  for  the  Sandwich 
Islands.  The  piece  having  been  translated  into  the  language  of 
Hawaii,  and  now  used  by  the  natives  as  a  national  hymn,  the 
translation  is  here  given  as  sung  to  the  tune  of  Scotland,  by  the 
Rev.  Charles  Stewart,  late  missionary  at  those  islands,  and  now 
chaplain  in  the  United  States'  Xavy. 

Wake,  Isles  of  the  South!  your  redemption  is  near, 
No  longer  repose  in  the  borders  of  gloom; 

The  Strength  of  His  chosen  in  love  will  appear, 
And  light  shall  arise  on  the  verge  of  the  tomb. 

The  billows  that  girt  ye,  the  wild  waves  that  roar, 
The  zephyrs  that  play  where  the  ocean-storms 
cease, 

Shall  bear  the  rich  freight  to  your  desolate  shore, 
Shall  waft  the  glad  tidings  of  pardon  and  peace. 

On  the  islands  that  sit  in  the  regions  of  night, 
The  lands  of  despair,  to  oblivion  a  prey, 

The  morning  will  open  with  healing  and  light; 
The  bright  star  of  Bethlehem  will  usher  the  day. 

The  altar  and  idol  in  dust  overthrown, 

The  incense  forbade  that  was  offered  in  blood, 

The  Priest  of  Melchisedec  there  shall  atone, 
And  the  shrines  of  Hawaii  be  sacred  to  God! 

The  heathen  will  hasten  to  welcome  the  time, 
The  day-spring,  the  prophet  in  vision  once  saw— 


WILLIAM  p,.  TAPPAN.  127 

When  the  beams  of  Messiah  shall  gladden  each  clime, 
And  the  isles  of  the  ocean  shall  wait  for  his  law. 

And  thou  Obookiah!   now  sainted  above, 

Wilt  rejoice,  as  the  heralds  their  mission  disclose; 

And  the  prayer  will  be  heard,  that  the  land  thou 
didst  love, 
May  blossom  as  Sharon,  and  bud  as  the  rose ! 


(TRANSLATION.) 

EARA  BTA  MOKU  O  KAI  RIRO  E. 

Ear  a  na  moku  o  kai  riro  e, 

Mai  moe  mau  no  i  ka  kae  o  ka  po, 

E  nana  oukou  ra,  ua  ana  ao  nei. 

'Ke  maramarama  e  ora'i  oukou. 

"  Haleluia  ia  Iesu,  i  ko  kakou  Alana, 

Hiilani  hou  ia  Ia  i  ka  wai  loridana."* 

Ko  nam  a  puni  e  haruru  ae, 
Na  rakou  e  amo  k'ukana  maitai 
E  rave  ka  ko  a  me  ka  maranai, 
Ka  moku  i  uka  ka  me  e  ora'i. 

I  na  moku  i  paa  i  ka  pouri  mau. 
Uhia  'ka  naau  po  wale  rakou, 


*   This  chorus  in  English  is  from  "  The  Voice  of  Free  Grace," 
riz.  *  Alleluia  to  the  Lamb  who  has  purchased  our  pardon,'  8cc 


128  THE  POEMS  OF 

Ano  nei  e  puka  no  maila  ke  ao 
Hoku  Bet'lehema,  ka  Hoku  ao  mail. 

E  ake  rakou  i  nana  wave  ae 
Ka  wehea  mai  'ka  araura  maitai, 
A  o  ka  kukuna  o  ka  Mesia  mau, 
"  A  'kali  na  moku  kona  kanawai." 

Huiia  ka  rere  a  pau,  me  ka  kii; 
E  hooreia  ka  taumaha  a  pau; 
I  k'Alana  ma  itai  rakou  e  ora'i, 
E  tabu  ka  Heiau  na  ke  Akua  mau. 

E  Obukahaia  i  noho  runa'e 
'Hauoli  no  mai  'ka  olelo  maitai; 
'Rohea  ka  pule  no  ko  aina  nei, 
I  pono  rakou  nei,  i  nani  no  nae. 


I  SAW  THE  OUTCAST. 

I  saw  the  outcast — an  abandoned  boy, 

Whom  wretchedness,  debased,  might  call  its  own. 

His  look  was  wan,  and  his  sad  sunken  eye, 

Mute  pleader,  told  a  bosom-harrowing"  tale. 

For  he  was  one,  unknown  to  fostering  care, 

That  should  have  shielded  and  protected  him 

In  childhood's  dangerous  hour.  No  father's  prayer, 

In  midnight's  orison,  had  risen  ever 

Before  the  viewless  throne,  to  fall  again 


f  '  i 


WILLIAM  B.  TAPPAX.  129 

In  blessing-s  on  the  lad.     No  mother's  tear 

Had  dropt  in  secret  for  the  wanderer.     He, 

Dejected,  stood  before  me,  and  methougTit 

Resembled  much  a  flower,  a  ruined  flower, 

But  lovely  once,  and  might  have  bourgeoned  gaily, 

Had  not  Adversity's  dread  simoon  passed, 

And  blighted  all  its  sweets.     The  buds  of  hope 

Bloomed  on,  but  not  for  him.     The  morning  sun 

Shone  gladly  out — but  all  to  him  was  dark. 

His  soul  was  in  eclipse — the  energies 

Of  mind  lay  dormant,  withering  in  their  prime. 

I  looked,  but  he  had  passed  me;  he  stole  on 

Despondingly;  irresolute  his  pace, 

As  on  forbidden  ground.     The  world  seemed  not 

For  him — haply  its  frigid  boon  were  much, 

To  yield  the  sufferer  Misery's  sheltering  grave. 

I  saw  the  outcast — but  to  Fancy's  view 
Me  thought  a  vision,  fair  and  bright,  appeared. — 
So  changed,  I  doubted — but  intelligence 
Darting  in  lustre  from  his  mild  full  eye, 
Assured  my  throbbing  heart  'twas  he  indeed. 
Gone  was  the  sallow  hue,  the  sombre  cast 
Of  sorrow,  gone,  and  in  its  stead,  the  glow 
Of  cheerfidness  shone  out.     His  parting  lip 
Disclosed  the  smile  content  delights  to  wear, 
When  peace  within  sits  revelling.   His  step  erect, 
Told  of  a  heart  at  peace. — He  walked  in  the  beauty 
Of  happy  boyhood.      Wondering,  then,  I  asked 
The  cause.     He  pointed  meekly  to  a  dome 
Whose  hallowed  portals  tell  the  passenger 
That  the  Eternal  deigns  to  call  it  His — 
Known  of  all  nations  as  the  house  of  prayer: 


130  THE  POE3IS  OF 

Here,  said  the  youth,  while  glistening  drops  bedewed 
His  beauteous  cheek,  here  Pity  led  my  way; 
And  he  that  knew  no  father  soon  found  Oxe 
Able  and  sure  to  save.     And  he,  whose  tears 
No  mother's  hand  had  kindly  wiped  away, 
Found  Oxe  that  said,  "  Come,  thou  forsaken,  come 
Unto  my  bosom — rest,  poor  wanderer,  here." 
He  ceased.     My  full  heart,  as  I  went  my  way, 
Called  down  God's  benison  on  the  Sunday  School. 


C03I3IODORE  31  DOXOUGH. 

Thou  shouldst  not  to  the  grave  descend 
Unknown  to  foe,  unwept  by  friend; 
Nor  need  the  panegyric  verse 
In  glowing*  strains  thy  deeds  rehearse. 

We  ask  not  for  thy  early  tomb 
Ambition's  proudest  leaf  to  bloom; 
Or  that  a  nation  should  decree 
Marble  or  obsequies  to  thee. 

Yet  when  the  recollected  charms 
Of  modest  worth,  one  heart  embalms; 
When  that  heart  prompts  the  holy  tear 
To  joys  once  known — no  longer  here — 

Chide  not! — the  clime  to  which  thou'st  fled, 
Where  sighs  are  not,  nor  tear  is  shed, 


WILLIAM  B.  TAPPAN.  131 

Is  genial  to  that  love,  whose  birth, 
Like  angel's  love,  was  not  of  earth. 

Farewell — and  while  we  say,  Farewell — 
"We  weep  not  that  yon  narrow  cell 
Encloses  thee,  for  there  thy  head 
Is  pillowed  on  the  Hero's  bed. 

The  Hero's  bed!  how  sweet  to  die 
When  victory's  won — How  sweet  to  He 
Where  laurels  deck  the  warrior's  brew, 
Where  tears  and  smiles  attend  him  now! 


W£  WANDER. 

We  wander  in  a  thorny  maze, 

A  vale  of  doubts  and  fears; 
A  night  illumed  with  sickly  rays, 

A  wilderness  of  tears: 
We  wander,  bound  to  empty  show, 

The  slaves  of  boasted  will; 
We  wander,  dupes  to  hope  untrue, 

And  love  to  wander  still. 

We  wander — while  unfading' joy 
The  heart  will  not  approve, 

The  bliss  that  sparkles  to  destroy, 
Secures  its  warmest  love: 


132  THE  POEMS  OF 

Some  syren  leads  our  steps  astray, 
But  speaks  no  peace  within; 

We  wander  in  a  flowery  way, 
We  wander,  heirs  of  sin. 

We  wander — but  though  oft  we  roam, 

Led  by  allurement  strong-, 
Yet  from  our  heavenly  Father's  home, 

We  would  not  wander  long: 
Cleanse  us,  O  Saviour!  from  this  stain 

In  mercy's  living  flood; 
Restore  the  lost,  and  bring  again 

The  wanderer  back  to  God. 


IS  THERE  A  HEART. 

Is  there  a  heart  on  which  thy  own 

May  bosom  in  affliction's  hour* 
Whose  pulse,  to  selfishness  unknown, 
Beats  quick  with  feeling's  holy  power } 

Is  there  a  soul  so  nobly  free, 

'Twould  proudly  love,  though  all  beside 
Had  passed  thee  in  adversity, 

Wrapt  in  the  mantle  of  their  pride } 

O,  seize  that  heart!  for  richer  'tis 

Than  all  that  glittering  dust  can  boast; 

Cherish  it  thou!  'twill  yield  a  bliss 

To  cheer,  when  worlds  on  worlds  are  tost, 


WILLIA3I  B.  TAPPAX.  133 

Though  hard  thy  lot,  Misfortune's  son! 

A  prey  to  ills — dare  not  repine; 
On  thee  Hope's  beacon-light  has  shone, 

If  such  a  heart  in  truth  be  thine. 


SUMMER. 

Sujuuu  looks  out!  how  green  and  gay 

Is  earth,  how  bright  her  flowers! 
'Tis  nature's  merry  holiday, 

And  these  her  white-winged  hours; 
The  winter  winds  are  hushed  to  rest, 

And  storms,  no  more  revealing 
Their  terrors,  sleep, — on  ocean's  breast 

The  wanton  breeze  is  stealing. 

Where's  now  the  frost  that  chained  the  brook, 

And  storm  that  heaved  the  sea? 
The  wild  wind  that  the  forest  shook, 

The  snow  that  clad  the  lea1 
Winter!  thou'st  fled!  and  men  rejoice, 

And  every  bird  in  tune 
Puts  forth  its  little  warbling  voice, 

To  welcome  laughing  June. 

Thus  when  on  the  benighted  one, 
A  weary  wanderer  driven, 

M 


134  THE  POE31S  OF 

A  castaway,  unsought,  undone, 
First  shines  the  peace  of  heaven: 

When  the  fair  Sun  of  Righteousness 
In  splendour,  brightly  glowing, 

Breaks  through  the  sundering  storm  to  bless 
That  heart,  to  overflowing — 

O  where's  the  tempest  that  had  spent 

Its  fury  on  the  broken? 
For  see !  the  cloud  of  anguish  rent, 

Reveals  the  rainbow  token: 
Lovely,  when  wintry  storms  depart, 

Summer's  glad  smile  to  see; 
Lovelier,  when  feels  my  drooping  heart, 

One  look,  O  God,  from  thee. 


PRAYER 

FOR  THE  AFRICAN  MISSION  THAT  SAILED  IN  THE 
SPRING  OF  1820. 

Thou  Uncreate !  whose  dread  decrees 

The  elements  obey; 
Who  rul'st  the  tempest  and  the  seas, 

With  undivided  sway — 
To  Thee,  Supreme,  we  raise  the  prayer, 

In  Jesus'  name  we  bow — 
That  thou  would'st  make  the  Church  thy  care, 

And  bid  Salvation  flow. 


WILLIAM  B.  TAPPAN.  L«M5 

Be  Thou,  O  God!   with  those  that  tread 

The  ocean's  dangerous  way; 
Who  g-o  where  love  has  never  shed 

Redemption's  living*  ray. 
God  of  the  billow!   O  enfold 

Their  barque,  when  dang-ers  rise, 
And  light  their  course  as  when  of  old 

Thy  cloud  illumed  the  skies! 

And  Thou  who  walk'st  the  mountain  foam, 

And  still'st  the  waves  to  sleep — 
Deign  Thou  to  pillow  those  that  roam, 

And  giride  them  o'er  the  deep; 
From  sultry  heat  and  burning-  waste, 

Protect  the  little  band, 
Shine  on  each  heart  and  bid  it  taste 

Thy  strength  in  Afric's  land. 

And  O  thou  Father  of  mankind! 

Smile  ever  on  thine  own; 
The  Ethiopian's  yoke  unbind, 

Hear  thou  the  captive's  moan; 
The  cause  O  God,  alone  is  thine, 

We  trust  the  eternal  Word, 
And  hail  thy  Missions  as  the  sig-n 

That  all  shall  know  the  Lord. 


136  THE  POEMS  OF 


Forsaken  is  Nazareth  of  fair  Galilee, 
The  beauty  of  Israel  is  scattered  abroad; 
No  more  wakes  the  timbrel  on  Gadarene's  sea, 
Desolation  is  seen  in  the  city  of  God. 

Was  it  thus,  O  thou  Lonely!  in  days  of  thy  boast, 
When  the  lamp  of  the  Highly  illumined  afar? 
When  the  song  of  the  minstrel  was  heard  on  thy 

coast, 
When  the  dawning  appeared  long  foretold  by  the 

star? 

Was  it  thus,  O  Forsaken!  when  tidings  of  love, 
The  Cherub  that  worshipped  proclaimed  from  the 

skies, — 
Immanuel  with  mortals!  a  God  from  above! 
A  Shiloh  to  Israel — the  last  Sacrifice? 

Return  ye  bright  ages,  to  Nazareth  given, 

Ye  days  of  the  prophet!  revisit  again, 

When  caught  from  yon  altar  the  sun-ray  of  heaven 

Shall  bear  peace  to  nations  and  good  will  to  men. 


PRAYER  FOR  GREECE, 
WRITTEN  ON  HEARING  OF  THE  FALL  OF    XISSOLONGHI. 

Thou,  Worshipped!   Thou!  forever  nigh, 
Who  wear'st  the  title,    "  King  of  kings," 


WILLIAM   B.  TAPPAN.  1  %tf 

Hear  the  petition,  O  Most  Hig-h! 
That  feeling*  to  thy  footstool  brings. 

Thou  see'st  where  of  thy  rites  and  name, 
The  scornful  Moslem  makes  a  boast; 

O,  from  thy  chariot  wheels  of  flame 
Look,  and  confound  the  g'odless  host. 

O'er  the  once  lovely  Grecian  plains 

Rolls  desolation  like  a  flood; 
The  solitude  of  ruin  reigns 

Along"  those  valleys,  steeped  in  blood. 

The  robber  and  assassin  stand 

Where  tributaries  bent  the  knee; 
And  from  that  stricken,  weeping-  land, 

Rise  spire  and  shrine,  but  not  to  Thee ! 

And  yet  her  strife — she  knew  Thee  not — 
Thou  saw' st,  when  the  shamed  Persian  fled; 

When  Sparta,  on  one  g-lorious  spot, 
Numbered  her  choicest  with  the  dead. 

And  Lord!  when  persecution's  star 

In  later  time,  hung*  o'er  our  night, 
Didst  thou  not,  Mighty  One  in  war! 

Go  with  our  armies  to  the  fig-lit 5 

Leader  in  that  unequal  fray! 

Didst  thou  not  smite  the  spoiler  dumb, 
When  on  that  teeming",  awful  day, 

Fled  foemen  at  thy  thunder-drum } 

u  2 


138  THE  POEMS  OF 

Deliverer!  thus  to  hapless  Greece 
Be  thou  a  present  help  and  shield; 

Thine  be  her  battles,  Lord!  till  Peace 
Waves  dove-like  pinions  o'er  that  field. 

Speak!  and  where  mocking*  crescents  wane, 
Behold  the  Banner-Cross  unfurled! 

And  Greece,  restored,  become  again 
The  beauteous  Eden  of  the  world. 


FATE  OF  THE  PILOT  BOAT. 

The  night  was  lone  and  the  star-ray  slept 

All  bright  on  wave  and  lea ; 
And  the  tempest-king  his  vigils  kept 

O'er  the  wide  Atlantic  sea. 

The  night  was  lone,  and  the  murmuring  train 

Of  slumber  stole  along; 
And  softly  whispering  o'er  the  main, 

Was  borne  the  sea-boy's  song. 

He  sang  of  home,  and  the  simple  charms 

The  cot  of  his  fathers  knew; 
He  sang  of  the  j  oy  of  a  mother's  arms, 

And  he  sang  of  the  maiden  true. 

The  note  was  wild,  but  the  artless  lay, 
His  dirge — should  soon  be  o'er: 


WILLIAM  B.  TAPPAN.  139 

His  bosom  was  light,  but  ere  the  day 
That  bosom  should  beat  no  more! 

The  ship  was  proud  and  gallant  her  trim, 

Her  banner  swept  the  wave; 
But  ere  the  lamps  of  heaven  grew  dim, 

That  flag  should  deck  her  grave ! 

The  Lady  watched  the  beauteous  star, 

As  o'er  the  blue  waste  it  shone; 
And  busy  memory  strayed  afar, 

And  fancy  sighed  alone. 

She  thought  of  bliss  and  fairy  home, 

And  affection's  smiling  store; 
But  ah!  fond  love  and  a  husband's  dome, 

That  bosom  should  know  no  more. 

For  the  pirate  crew  in  revelry 

Had  drunk  to  the  dreadful  deed, 
And  the  murderers  swore  right  j  ovially, 

The  innocent  heart  should  bleed! 

At  the  midnight  hour  was  heard  the  cry, 

The  shriek  of  fell  despair; 
At  dawn  was  hushed  the  billowy  sigh, 

And  the  pale  moon  glimmered  fair. 

But  the  wind-god  saw  the  deed  of  hell. 
When  the  fiends  forsook  the  deck; 

He  saw  the  barque  as  it  slowly  fell, 
'Till  it  sank — a  viewless  wreck! 


140  THE  POEMS  OF 


TIS  TO  THE  EAST  THE  HEBREW  BENDS. 

'Tis  to  the  East  the  Hebrew  bends, 

When  morn  unveils  its  brow; 
And  while  the  evening  rite  ascends, 

The  East  receives  his  vow  : 
Dear  to  the  exile  is  the  soil 

That  reared  Jehovah's  Vine — 
Dear  to  the  wretched  heir  of  toil, 

Thy  memory,  Palestine ! 

'Tis  to  the  East  the  Hebrew  tarns, 

The  clime  to  prescience  dear; 
When  kindling  recollection  burns, 

When  memory  claims  the  tear: 
Land  of  the  Patriarch!  he  recalls, 

The  days  of  promise,  when 
The  timbrel  rang  along  thy  halls, 

And  God  communed  with  men. 

Where  Babel  wept  Judea's  wrongs, 

The  banished  Hebrew  sighs; 
Where  Zion  swelled  her  holy  songs, 

His  tribute  seems  to  rise  ; 
And  hope  still  wings  his  thought  afar, 

It  tells  to  those  that  roam, 
That  He  who  rode  the  cloudy  car, 

Will  guide  his  people  home. 


WILLIAM  B.  TAPPAN.  141 


AMERICAN  SUNDAY  SCHOOL  UNION  BUILDINGS. 

I  ask'd  the  passenger  for  whom  arose 
These  building's,  bold,  yet  in  the  beauty 
Of  due  proportion;  speaking  to  the  eye 
Of  taste  and  symmetry? — He  replied: 
Time  was,  when  knowledge  of  the  Holy  One, 
His  wisdom  and  perfections,  was  confined 
Unto  the  hoary.     Limited  to  age 
Were  things  of  godliness.     Days  only  spake, 
And  Years  held  converse  with  the  mysteries 
Redemption  had  disclosed.     The  aged  fed, 
And  richly  fed,  on  manna;  but  the  child — 
O,  he  knew  not  of  Bethlehem,  nor  heard 
The  simple  story  of  the  manger,  nor 
Of  Him,  the  Blessed!  whose  early  wisdom  shamed 
The  Rabbi;  who  unto  his  love  took  up 
Young  children,  and  gave  honor  unto  them 
Of  Bethphage,  when  they  met  the  Sufferer 
With  palm  and  song.     Thus  was  the  mind  a  blank, 
Whereon  the  devil  wrote  strange  language.     Here 
His  tares  the  subtle  adversary  sowed, 
And  ignorance  and  wild  disorder  flourished — 
A  baneful  harvest!     Childhood  waxed  to  youth, 
Yet  knew  not  God:  youth  unto  manhood  grew, 
Yet  mocked  the  father's  prayer,  and  scorned  the  mo- 
ther's tear. 
One*  came  at  length,  who,  imitating  Him, 
Israel's  kind  Shepherd,  gently  led  the  young 

*  Robert  Raikes. 


142  THE  POEMS  OF 

Out  of  sin's  path  into  the  narrow  way 

Of  life.     And  he  of  the  proud  .look  was  taught 

Humility;  the  tongue  of  blasphemy 

Lisped   Canaan's    accents ;    stubborn  knees    were 

bowed 
And  God's  high  Sabbath  witnessed  Wisdom's  call 
Unto  the  young.     It  was  a  goodly  work: 
It  prospered; — 'twas  His  own!     Behold  the  assem- 
bly, now 
That  throng  the  Sunday  School!  See,  on  each  brow 
Dove-like,  sit  blessedness  and  joy.     Thou  hear'st 
Their  sweet  and  holy  hymn:  'tis  Jesus'  name 
Inspires  the  melody.     To  list  that  song, 
Warbled  from  lips  so  lovely,  well  might  stir 
The  flinty  heart,  and  bid  the  infidel, 
Rebuked,  with  tears  exclaim,    "Lord,  I  believe!" 
They  kneel — the  infant  worshippers,  and  they 
Prevail  in  prayer;  for  has  He  not  declared 
Those  that  seek  early,  early  me  shall  find? 

Stranger!  this  noble  pile  is  consecrate, 
Devoted  to  the  Lord.     Hence  flow  the  streams 
That  irrigate  the  land:  yea,  that  refresh 
The  thirsty  world.     Hence  goes  the  Missionary 
To  plant  God's  nurseries,  and  to  the  work 
To  stimulate  His  servants.     Hence  the  page 
Of  sound  Instruction,  in  the  winning  guise 
Of  artless  story,  and  the  narrative 
Of  holy  children,  early  loved  of  God, 
And  early  gathered  to  the  white  -robed  choir, 
Wing  their  glad  way  alike  unto  the  hall 
Of  opulence,  and  to  the  low  abode 
Of  poverty.     Their  mighty  influence  felt, 


WILLIAM  B.  TAPPAN.  14^ 

The  tierce  has  wept,  and  many  a  softened  heart 
Has  owned  their  power;  and  many  a  child, 
Taught  by  these  little  messengers,  has  looked 
From  couch  of  sickness  to  the  Merciful, 
Pleading  in  faith,    "My  Father,  art  not  Thou 
The  Guide  and  kind  Preserver  of  my  youth!55 
And  thus  has  fled  to  glory.     Who  may  tell 
In  that  glad  day  when  God  makes  up  his  own, 
How  many  gems  in  the  Messiah's  crown 
"Were  gathered  by  these  heralds! — Stranger,  thou 
Weepest,  and  much  I  joy  to  see  thee  bend 
The  knee,  and  mingle  heart  and  prayer  with  mine, 
That  heavenly  dew  may  ever  gently  nourish 
This  vine  of  God's  own  planting.     May  the  prayers 
Of  thousands,  wafted  to  the  eternal  throne, 
Drop  in  rich  blessings  on  the  Sunday  School. 


THE  CHINESE  MISSION. 

Go,  minister  of  God, 
To  lands  where  soars  the  pagoda  in  pride, 
The  soil  that  pagan  footstep  long  has  trod, 
And  tell  the  story  of  a  Saviour  crucified. 

Go  to  the  clime  of  night, 
Where  sullen,  broods  the  darkness  to  be  felt; 
And  point  those  millions  to  the  star  of  Light, 
That  burned  and  trembled  once,  above  where  Magi 
knelt. 


144  THE  POEMS  OF 

Go,  and  amid  the  din 
Of  idol  bells  and  heaving*  multitudes, 
Teach  erring-  men  the  anthem  to  begin, 
That  whispered  below,  swells  out  in  blest  abodes. 

Go !  in  this  mortal  strife, 
A  Prince,  your  standard-bearer,  leads  before; 
Look  ever  to  Him, — they  are  crowns  of  life 
He  gives:  win  thou  for  Christ  the  Asiatic  shore. 

Go,  and  in  life's  glad  morn, 
— If  wills  the  Master  here,  no  more  we  meet, 
With  China's  millions  by  his  grace  new  born, 
He'll  gather  thee  and  us  unto  his  feet. 


HYMN, 


WRITTEN  FOR  THE  CELEBRATION  OF  THE  FORTY-NINTH 
ANNIVERSARY  OF  AMERICAN  INDEPENDENCE  AT  PHI- 
LADELPHIA. 

The  patriot  sires  in  glory  sleep : 

Their  sepulchre  is  holy  earth; 
And  we  upon  their  ashes,  keep 

The  sabbath  of  a  nation's  birth. 

God  of  our  battles!  didst  not  thou 
The  right  arm  of  those  warriors  guide, 

"Who  laid  in  blood  the  foemen  low 
And  freely  gave  their  own  heart's  tide ? 


WILLIAM  B.  TAPPAN.  145 

And  didst  thou  not  along  our  shore, 
Bid  angel  Peace  extend  her  wing*  5 

And  folding  banners  wave  no  more, 
And  social  arts  in  verdure  spring  ? 

These  are  thy  works,  O  God!  and  we, 
The  sons  who  never  could  be  slaves, 

Who  proudly  view  fair  Freedom's  tree 
Expanding  o'er  our  father's  graves — 

We  crush  the  mind,  we  forge  the  chain, 
Yea,  from  the  soil  by- charter  given, 

This  hallowed  hour  the  sigh  of  pain 
Ascends,  accusing  us  to  Heaven. 

Will  mockery  ask,  this  Day,  what  spoil 
Shall  hearts  in  glad  oblation  yield, — 

The  first-fruits  of  a  teeming  soil, 
Or  choicest  cattle  from  the  field? 

Will  solemn  vows — where  pseans  swell, 
Lauding  our  fabric's  goodly  plan — 

Atone,  while  stripes  and  fetters  tell 
That  man  is  pitiless  to  man  ? 

Vain  all,  the  Highest  has  no  need 
Of  our  first-fruits  or  altar's  smoke; 

Dearer  to  God  is  mercy's  deed, 
Nobler  to  break  oppression's  yoke. 


146  the  toems  or 


Farewell  to  New  England. 

Fahewell   to    the   scenes  that  my  childhood  has 

known, 
The  spot  recollection  reviews  at  its  own; 
The  land  of  the  yeoman,  by  industry  blessed, 
The  home  of  the  free,  to  the  exile  a  rest; 
Thou  clime  of  my  birth!  though  I  wander  away, 
Thought  lingers  with  thee,  it  never  can  stray: 
For  dear  to  this  bosom,  New  England!  the  soil 
Where  Love  cheers  the  cot  and  Content  sweetens 

toil. 

Farewell  to  your  waters  that  peacefully  glide, 
To  the  intervales  rich  and  the  mountains  your  pride; 
To  the  marts  that  the  triumphs  of  enterprise  tell, 
To  the  hamlets,  where  peace  and  tranquillity  dwell; 
Farewell,  native  scenery!  to  me  ever  dear, 
I  give  to  your  charms  the  heart's  tribute,  a  tear; 
For  sweet  to  this  bosom,  New  England!  the  soil 
Where  Love  cheers  the  cot  and  Content  sweetens 
toil. 

Farewell  to  the  homestead,  half  hid  in  the  glade, 
The  orchard  and  elms  where  in  boyhood  I  strayed; 
The  meeting-house  spire  that  rose  from  the  vale, 
The  mill,  and  the  streamlet  that  watered  the  dale ; 
In  vision,  the  wanderer  afar  to  the  west, 
Will  stray  o'er  the  objects  that  childhood  loved  best, 
For  dear  to  his  bosom,  New  England!  the  soil 
Where  Love  cheers  the  cot  and  Content  sweetens 
toil. 


WILLIAM  B.  TAPPAX.  147 


WHEN  O  ER  LONG  NIGHT. 

Whex  o'er  long  night  the  bursting*  dawn 

In  youthful  bloom  appeared; 
"When  angels  hymned  the  rising  morn, 

And  songs  in  heaven  were  heard: 
Amid  the  burning  orbs  that  gem'd 

Jehovah's  viewless  throne, 
In  native  glory  diadem'd, 

One  Star  illumed  alone. 

O'er  Palestine,  fair  Solyma, 

Benignantly  serene, 
Precursor  of  a  brighter  day, 

The  harbinger  was  seen; 
The  captive  saw  the  symbol  shine — 

His  broken  fetters  fell; 
The  Shepherd  marked  the  peerless  sign 

That  told  Imzmaxuel! 

In  latter  time  we  view  it  burn 

With  undiminished  ray \ 
It  leads  the  Pagan's  glad  return, 

It  cheers  the  wanderer's  wav; 
With  influence  sweet  illuming  far, 

Its  beam  to  peace  inclines; 
From  East  to  West  the  holy  star, 

The  star  of  Jesus  shines! 


148 


THE  POEMS  OF 


WHEN  THE  LAST  TEAR. 

When  the  last  tear  of  love  is  shed, 
And  the  freed  spirit  hastes  away; 

When  joy,  desire,  and  hope  have  fled, 
And  beauty  seeks  its  couch  in  clay, 

O,  then,  what  art  or  pageantry 

Of  worth  departed,  tells? — what  bust 

To  ages  breathes  the  memory 

Of  those  that  slumber  dust  with  dust? 

For  curious  art  will  disappear, 
And  time  obliterates  the  urn, 

And  those  that  now  bes'ow  the  tear, 
Will  claim  the  tribute  in  return. 


Vain  is  the  pageant,  vain  is  art, 
To  glean  from  years  a  living  name; 

One  simple  deed  of  virtue's  heart 
Alone  can  consecrate  its  fame. 


WILLIAM  B,  TAPPAN.  149 


OX  VIEWING  TRUMBULL  8  PAINTING  OF  THE 
DECLARATIOX  OF  IXDEPEXDEXCE. 

To  free  from  chains  a  groaning*  land, 
Inspired  by  Right  and  Valour's  flame, 

On  Freedom's  scroll  the  patriot  band 
Inscribed  Columbia's  deathless  fame. 

Now  ceased  the  clarion  of  war, 

A  nation  blooms  on  slavery's  grave ; 

Her  starry  banner  floats  afar, 

Her  conquering"  navy  ploughs  the  wave. 

"While  robed  in  peace,  true  valour's  meed, 
Columbia  walks  in  generous  pride; 

She  ne'er  forgets  the  glorious  deed, 

That  stemmed  oppression's  haughty  tide. 

Though  envious  Time's  unsparing  hand 
Has  bowed  in  dust  the  warrior's  plume — 

Though  slumber  now  the  gallant  band, 
Where  fadeless  laurel  decks  their  tomb : 

The  Pencil  speaks — again  they  breathe ! 

We  see  their  veteran  forms  again; 
We  see  each  patriot  bosom  heave, 

As  heaved  it  on  the  battle-plain. 

And  wrapt  in  awe,  we  catch  the  flame 
That  kindled  by  Oppression's  spoil, 
n2 


150 


THE  POEMS  OF 


And  swear  no  tyrant  foot  shall  claim 
A  rest  on  Freedom's  natal  soil. 


MY  NATIVE  VILLAGE. 


Hail  to  the  valley  and  mist-mantled  mountain! 
The  scenes  of  my  childhood,  to  memory  dear; 
Hail  to  the  cot  by  the  favourite  fountain, 
Where  simplicity  dwells  with  affection  sincere. 

O  long  have  I  wandered  a  stranger  to  pleasure, 
In  search  of  its  shadow,  self-exiled  to  roam; 
But  ne'er  in  yon  climes  have  I  found  the  rich  trea- 
sure, 
It  dwells  unconcealed  in  my  own  native  home. 

How  often,  soft  slumber  my  eye-lids  enclosing", 
With  joy  to  the  streamlet  and  dell  would  I  fly; 
While  fancy  on  scenes  of  affection  reposing, 
Dwelt  there  with  pure  transport,  but  woke  with  a 
sigh. 

O  dear  to  the  soul  is  the  secret  emotion, 
When  fond  recollections  its  impulses  move; 
And  sweet  is  the  tear  which  the  heart's  true  devotion 
Bestows  to  the  memory  of  infancy's  love. 


WILLIAM  B.  TAPPAX.  151 

Here  fain  would  I  wander,  a  stranger  to  sorrow, 
Where  the  woodbine  entwines  and  the  wild  roses 

bloom  ; 
Confiding-  with  heaven  the  cares  of  the  morrow 
'Till  the  blush  of  life's  twilight  shall  rest  on  my  tomb. 

Hail  to  the  valley  and  mist-mantled  mountain! 
The  scenes  of  my  childhood,  to  memory  dear; 
Hail  to  the  cot  by  the  favourite  fountain, 
Where  simplicity  dwells  with  affection  sincere. 


LA  FAYETTE. 

Sox  of  valour!   Heir  of  glory! 

Noble  by  the  patriot's  line; 
Gallant  warrior!  Chieftain  hoary! 

Immortality  is  thine. 
Wreath  the  laurel,  Muses!   wreath  it, 

'Tis  for  no  ignoble  name; 
Breathe  the  song,  Inspirers!  breathe  it, 

Worthy  of  the  Veteran's  fame ! 

When  a  people,  true  to  bravery, 

Saw  the  storm-cloud  gathering  nigh, 
Heard  the  manacles  of  slavery 

Rattle  in  the  turbid  sky, 
Let  a  nation  ne'er  forget — 

Then  arose  proud  Victory's  son, 
Crushed  is  slavery!  La  Fayette 

Wears  the  meed  that  valour  won! 


152  THE  POEMS  OP 

Haste,  ye  nobles!  vainly  borrow 

Lustre  from  the  scroll  of  peers, 
While  it  dies,  the  name  of  Warrior 

Brightens  with  the  touch  of  years: 
And  though  mingled  with  his  fathers 

In  the  slumbers  of  the  tomb, 
Time,  that  saps  the  palace,  gathers 

For  the  Hero,  fresher  bloom. 

Go,  and  mark  him! — shades  of  even 

Soon  shall  lurk  around  his  bed, — 
Go,  and  mark  him! — winds  of  heaven 

Soon  shall  sweep  that  wintry  head: 
Garlands  there  shall  flourish  yet 

Fairer  than  the  poet's  dream; 
Perish  Silence !  La  Fayette 

Is  a  nation's  grateful  theme. 


THE  THUNDER  STORM, 

The  storm  is  up! — along  the  sky 
Swiftly  the  ebon  rack  is  driven; 
And  look!  yon  curling  cloud  floats  nigh, 
Charged  with  the  panoply  of  heaven : 
It  rends,   and  gathering  to  a  heap, 
Of  angry  billows  takes  the  form; 
How  troubled  is  that  upper  deep! 
God!  thou  art  awful  in  thy  storm. 


WILLIAM  B.   TAPPAX.  15:1 

'Tis  passed — and  see!  o'er  fields  again 
Sunbeams  their  laughing'  light  unfold; 
On  tower  and  tree  the  sparkling  rain 
Drops  like  a  shower  of  molten  gold; 
On  yonder  hill-top  rests  the  bow, 
The  air  is  redolent  of  balm; 
How  bright  is  all  above,  below! 
God!  thou  art  glorious  in  thy  calm. 

So,  when  the  tempest  shrouds  my  skies, 
And  grief  holds  empire  in  my  soul; 
I  see  the  desolation  rise, 
The  waves  already  o'er  me  roll; 
Thou  speak'st,  and  like  a  tender  sire 
Thou  dost  thy  child's  frail  fears  reprove; 
Lofty  art  thou  when  storms  retire; 
God!  thou  art  dearer  in  thy  love. 


RUINS  OF  JAMES  TOWN,  VIRGINIA. 

WRITTEN  WHILE  PASSING  DOWN  JAXES   RIVER. 

The  town  sleeps  in  ruins  and  solitude  reigns, 
Where  nature  once  smiled  with  the  aspect  of  day  : 
Drear  night  broods  alone  o'er  the  valley  and  plains, 
And  thy  shores,  Powhatan!  nought  but  sadness  dis- 
play. 


154 


THE  POEMS  OF 


The  tribute,  fair  Princess,*  that  rose  to  thy  fame, 
The  memorial  so  dear  to  affection  and  thee, 
Is  scattered  afar,  and  there's  nought  but  the  name 
To  tell  that  thy  soul  was  as  generous  as  free. 

Lorn  now  is  the  structure  once  hallowed  by  prayer, 
No  longer  the  organ  is  heard  in  the  aisle, 
The  ivy  is  festooned,  the  cypress  blooms  there, 
And  the  lonely  night-bird  nestles  sad  in  the  spoil. 

In  the  clefts  of  the  tombstone  the  tall  grass  is  green, 
The  shrub  and  the  lilac  commingle  their  shade; 
'Mid  the  moss-covered  fragments  the  yew  tree  is  seen, 
It  hallows  the  spot  where  the  fathers  are  laid. 

The  relics  of  sorrow  are  scattered  around, 
The  wild  flowerets  shade  them,  the  thistles  appear, 
But  the  heart  of  affection  oft  visits  the  mound, 
The  traveller  returns  and  indulges  the  tear. 

Oh  dust  of  my  fathers!  still  soft  be  your  bed, 
Revered  be  the  trophies  which  memory  endears: 
Ye  ruins  that  hallow  the  place  of  the  dead, 
Your  remembrance  shall  live  while  virtue  hath  tears. 


1  Pocahontas. 


WjLsjlAm  b.  tappa.x.  155 


THE  LAST  VOYAGE. 


He  launches  on  the  waveless  deep, 

Sad  thoughts  crowd  on  his  joy, 
That  hour  he  has  beheld  her  weep — 

The  mother  o'er  her  boy. 
Loftily  now  before  the  breeze. 

The  vessel  rides,  and  fast 
She  dashes  through  deceitful  seas, 

That  voyage  is  her  last ! 
The  gallant  ship  has  spread  her  sail, 

"With  her  did  hope  depart? 
Day  follows  day,  and  wherefore  fail 

Tidings  to  cheer  the  heart1 
Not  unto  that  bereaved  home. 

Will  he  come,  where  tears  are  shed; 
He  comes  not,  and  he  will  not  come 

'Till  the  sea  gives  up  its  dead. 

They  reck  not  of  the  ocean-caves, 

AVhere  men  and  treasures  lie. 
Buried  within  their  dreamless  graves, 

Beyond  e'en  fancy's  eye; 
They  reck  not  dust  is  given  to  dust, 

And  the  coral  wreaths  his  brow; 
And  she  that  was  a  widow  first, 

Childless  is  written  now: 
That  noble  ship — that  cheerful  crew — 

Those,  what  dire  scath  befel, 
Is  it  not  hidden  from  our  view } 

The  last  great  day  shall  telU 


156  THE  POEMS  OF 

Yet  we  may  deem  no  quiet  pillow, 

No  death-bed  was  for  them; 
Nought  but  the  wrecked  ship,  and  the  billow 

That  rushed  to  overwhelm. 

That  hour,  of  friends  to  sooth,  was  none, 

Of  shipmates,  none  to  pray; 
The  gulf  before  them — each  alone 

Must  tread  the  trackless  way: 
O,  that  wild  passage !  who  can  know 

Of  the  spirit's  fearful  wreck; 
When  loosing  hold  of  all  below 

She  fled  from  the  sinking  deck! 
Aye,  and  how  many  wander  now 

On  that  dark-heaving  sea, 
Whose  strength  shall  soon  be  taught  to  bow, 

As  Death,  lost  one,  bowed  thee! 
Arm  of  the  Lord!  haste  thou  and  save, 

Of  these  may  it  be  said: 
They  lie  in  that  unfathomed  grave, 

With  the  Redeemer's  dead. 


THE  LAST  VETERAN  OF  THE  REVOLUTION. 

I  saw  the  hoary  warrior  chief, 

Whose  sternly  proud,  but  blighted  form 
Proclaimed  him  worn  with  bitter  grief, 

An  oak  amid  the  pelting  storm. 


WILLIAM  V,.  TAPFAN.  151 

Of  those  whose  crimson  tide  embrued 
The  fields  where  Albion's  glory  fell; 

Of  those  who  oft  undaunted  stood, 
"When  cannons  pealed  the  hero's  knell — 

He  was  the  last — the  only  head 

"Was  Ills,  that  waved  with  wintry  bloom; 

Surviving*  all,  for  all  had  sped: 

They  slept  in  honour's  laurelled  tomb. 

He  gazed — alas!  he  grazed  in  vain, 
To  meet  the  comrades  of  his  toil; 

Compatriots  on  the  battle  plain, 
Companions  in  the  glorious  spoil. 

All,  all  around  was  sad  and  drear, 

And  nought  coidd  grief  of  years  beguile; 

For  him  condolence  had  no  tear; 
For  him  affection  wore  no  smile. 

I  saw — and  lo,  the  old  man  slept; 

The  war-worn  veteran  joined  the  brave, 
And  none  upon  his  allies  wept: 

Forgotten  was  the  soldier's  grave. 


15S  THE  POEMS  OF 


WHAT  HEART  HAS  NOT  FALSE  HOPE  MISLED. 

AY  hat  he  ail  has  not  false  Hope  misled 

In  fancy's  early  dream? 
Who  has  not  revelled  in  the  sweets 

Of  childhood's  careless  day } 

'Tis  painful,  'mid  the  wreck  of  time 

Eternally  gone  by, 
To  scan  the  bliss  of  other  years, 

Bliss  that  shall  ne'er  return. 

To  some,  existence  is  a  sea 

Of  calm  unruffled  joy; 
To  others,  'tis  a  troubled  deep 

Of  wretchedness  and  tears. 

For  me  awaits  no  airy  dream 

Of  pure  unclouded  j  oy : 
Anticipation  dims  my  way, 

And  retrospection  grieves. 

And  what  is  Earth5 — a  wildering  maze, 

Alluring",  yet  untrue: 
The  heir  of  hope  may  smile — the  child 

Of  misery  may  die. 

To  him  by  secret  wo  oppressed, 

The  world  bestows  no  sigh; 
Ne'er  smooths  his  pillow,  or  bedews 

His  unobtrusive  gTave. 


WILLIAM  B.  TAFPAN.  159 

Vet  there  are  those  that  keenly  feel 

The  wounds  a  friend  endures; 
The  griefs  their  own  sad  hearts  have  known 

Excite  kind  sympathy. 

I  ask  not  for  the  false  lament 

Wealth's  minion  would  bestow. 
Give  me  in  life's  expiring'  pang, 

The  tear  of  Poverty. 


I  LOVE  AT  EVENING  S  SILENT  TIDE. 

I  love  at  evening*' s  silent  tide, 

When  busy  care  has  flown, 
In  some  sequestered  dell  to  hide, 

And  pensive,  muse  alone. 

'Tis  then  in  solitude  refined, 

Reflection  feels  its  zest ; 
'Tis  then  the  contemplative  mind 

With  reason's  charm  is  blest. 

'Tis  then  the  expanding*  soul  ascends 

And  roves  in  fields  above, 
And  the  mysterious  Essence  blends 

With  Uncreated  Love. 

O  Solitude!  thy  soothing  charm 
Can  conquer  fell  despair; 


J  60  THE  POE3IS  OF 

Can  sad  affliction's  sling-  disarm, 
And  banish  every  care. 

While  folly's  votary  hates  thy  shrine, 
And  grandeur  fears  thy  power — 

Still  be  thy  rich  enjoyments  mine, 
To  bless  life's  fleeting  hour. 


TO  AN  INTERESTING  YOUNG  LADY, 
DEAF  AND   DUMB. 

Weep  not  maiden,  that  thou  never 
Canst  thy  ardent  love  express; 

Weep  not  fate  from  thee  doth  sever 
All  that  would  affection  bless. 

Woukist  thou  strive  to  lighten  sorrow  I 
'Tis  the  sigh  thy  breast  will  free — 

Wouldst  thou  soothing*  accents  borrow  ? 
All  our  tears  we  give  to  thee. 

Though  like  some  sweet  opening  flower 
Which  the  blush  of  morn  displayed, 

Pressed  by  evening's  rudest  shower, 
Each  loved  beauty  seems  to  fade, 

Yet  the  orb  of  glory  risen 

Bids  the  floweret  droop  no  more: 
Thus  the  cheering  dawn  of  heaven 

All  thy  graces  shall  restore. 


WILLIAM  R.  TAPPAN.  161 


ETERNITY. 


The  shadowy  reign  of  Time  had  passed  away, 
Systems  had  fled,   and  suns  illumed  no  more. 
The  starry  gems  were  lost  in  radiant  day, 
The  last  shrill  trump  had  waked  the  distant  shore ; 
Its  clang1  had  ceased,   and  silence  was  in  heaven. 
I  saw  the  marshalled  cordon  of  the  sky, 
In  glittering  ranks  be  stud  the  trackless  plains 
The  tomb's  pale  monarch  bound  in  chains  stood  by, 
The  prince  of  darkness  with  his  powers  was  nigh; 
While  ransomed  myriads  swelled  the  countless  train. 
****** 

I  saw  the  scroll  *  *  *  * 

Endless  duration  never  can  unfold! 

I  saw  the  scroll — The  Life  of  Deity  was  there. 

Its  awful  signet  shall  remain  untold; 

No  strains  of  heaven,   no  curse  in  hell,  may  dare 

Eternity!  thy  dreadful  years  declare. 


TO  THE  DOVE. 

Sweet  warbler  of  the  painted  vest, 
Thou  art  in  fair  luxuriance  drest; 
The  fondest  of  the  plumaged  throng, 
The  lonely  bird  of  plaintive  song. 
o  2 


162  THE  POEMS  OF 

The  condor  vast,  the  wren  minute, 
The  pheasant  gay,  the  falcon  brute, 
Though  bold  or  pleasing"  to  the  eve, 
Can  ne'er  with  thee,   my  favourite,  vie. 

claim'st  my  sympathy  and  love; 
For  still  in  some  sequestered  grove, 
Thou  dost  indulge  thy  artless  moan, 
And  lov'st  to  sing'  and  sigh  alone. 

Thy  tender  strain  of  hapless  wo 
Oft  bids  the  tear  of  sorrow  flow; 
Thy  note  exceeds  the  touch  of  art, 
Thy  melody  attracts  the  heart. 

Yet  blithe  and  cheerful  is  thy  mien, 
And  halcyon  mirth  with  thee  is  seen: 
Thou  roam'st  at  large,  disporting  free, 
Fidelity  a  trait  of  thee. 


M  LOOK  AT  T  OTHER  SIDE. 

Wuex  Jim  one  day  with  brother  Joe, 
A  simple,  thoughtless  clown, 

With  father's  leave  set  out  to  go 
And  see  the  shows  in  town: 

It  chanced,  while  idly  gaping  round, 

Each  wonder  to  descry, 
An  orange,  fair,  and  seeming*  sound, 

Caught  Joe's  attentive  eye. 


WILLIAM  B.  TAPPAN.  163 

Joe  gazed  not  long",  and  straight  had  bought 

"With  haste  and  chuckling  pride; 
But  Jim,  a  youth  of  keener  thought, 

Said,    "  Look  at  t'other  side !" 

Joe  viewed  again  without  ado, 

And  questioned  well  his  sight; 
For  underneath,  half  hid  from  view, 

The  fruit  was  rotten  quite. 

And  since  that  well-remembered  day, 

Whatever  doth  betide, 
Joe  ne'er  by  wrong  is  led  astray, 

But  " looks  at  t'other  side!" 

When  fools  arrayed  in  fortune's  smile, 

Are  puffed  with  haughty  pride; 
Joe  envies  first,  then  thinks  awhile, 

And  "looks  at  t'other  side!" 

When  scandal  takes  its  busy  round, 

With  huge  and  sweeping  stride, 
Joe  heeds  it  not:  with  thought  profound, 

He  "  looks  at  t'other  side!' 

When  urged  in  Dissipation's  maze, 

Corroding  griefs  to  hide, 
Joe  views  the  bowl  with  loathing  gaze, 

And  "looks  at  t'other  side!" 

When  sad  distress  and  care  are  nigh, 

And  faithless  friends  deride; 
With  humble  hope  and  tearful  eye, 

Joe  "looks  at  t'other  side!" 


164  THE  POEMS  OF 

And  when — life's  raging  tempest  past — 
No  more  he  stems  the  tide; 

With  joy  on  yonder  shores,  at  last, 
He'll  view  "the  other  side!" 


THE  BROOK  KEDRON. 

The  day  hath  fled,  on  Salem's  tower 
The  lovely  moon-beam  calmly  shines; 

Hushed  is  the  song  in  court  and  bower, 
And  worshipless  the  holy  shrines. 

'Tis  night.     Jerusalem  is  still, 
And  lost  in  sleep  are  bond  and  free  ; 

Her  streets,  her  vale,  the  holy  hill 
Repose  in  sweet  tranquillity. 

Repose  they  all? — have  none  from  sleep 
Aroused,  to  sigh  o'er  Zion's  blight? — 

Retire  not  some,  alone,  to  weep — 
Wake  not  a  faithful  few  this  night  ? 

Yes!  and  along  the  be ethng  brow 

Of  his  beloved  Olivet, 
The  Man,  afflicted,  wanders  now, 

And  there  have  his  disciples  met. 

How  sad  the  greeting!  who  may  tell 
The  tenderness  which  in  that  look 

Burst  forth,  when  Jesus  wept  farewell 
To  those  he  loved  by  Kedron's  brook ! 


WILLIAM  B.  TAPPAN.  165 


THE  WHITE -HILLS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

I  see  ye  towering" — Genii  of  the  North! 
I  see  ye  stand,  the  monuments  of  time, 
Clad  in  the  dread  sublimity  of  years. 
Well  do  I  know  ye  by  the  frosty  robe, 
God's  drapery,  that  wraps  your  giant  forms. 

Parents  of  freedom!  on  your  hoary  heights 
The  fearless  eagle  makes  her  eyry,  there 
Plants  her  domain,  approachless  to  the  foe. 
The  hardy  yeoman  vent'rously  is  seen 
With  patient  labour  toiling-  your  ascent, 
Invading"  solitudes,  where  fitful  winds 
Talk  'mid  the  pines, — he  treads  the  dizzy  cliff; 
Thence,  wondering",  surveys  the  little  world 
Of  forest,  village,  lake,  that  clothes  your  feet. 
The  sailor  knows  ye — nearing"  the  rough  coast, — 
From  the  tall  mast,  his  lonely  weary  watch, 
Descries  and  greets  ye  as  a  long  lost  friend, 
When  your  hoar  summits  glittering  to  the  sun, 
Seem  to  his  gaze  but  fleecy  summer  clouds. 

And  what  are  works  of  man,  the  edifice, 
The  toil  of  ages? — what  the  aspiring  dome? 
Yea,  what  the  vaunted  mockers  of  old  Time, 
Egyptia's  columns — what  are  they  to  these? 
Works  of  God's  finger!  ye  shall  lift  your  heads 
Majestically,  when  the  pride  of  man 
Shall  waste  and  crumble,  yea,  when  Memphian  plains 
Are  cumbered  with  the  ruined  pyramid. 


166  THE  POEMS  OF 


HYMN 


SUNG  IX  CASTLE  GARDEN,   NEW-YORK,    BY  THE  SUNDAY 
SCHOLARS. 

First  Voices.* 
Oh,  ye  bless'd!  on  yonder  plains, 
Worshipping"  in  noble  strains, 
Ranks  of  veiled  Seraphim! 
Uttering"  your  melodious  hymn, 
Glorious  Spirits!   as  ye  bow, 
Bearing  victory's  palm-branch  now, 
Why  to  Jesus  give  renown  ? 
And  before  him  cast  the  crown? 

Second  Voices. 
'Tis  His  love  that  stirs  our  choirs, 
Silent  were  these  breathing"  wires, 
Mute  the  crystal  courts  above, 
If  the  anthem  were  not  Love. 

First  Voices. 
Tell  us,  bright  ones!  as  ye  kneel, 
Whose  the  richer  notes  that  steal, 
Sweet  and  soothing,  from  your  throng — 
Silver  voices  mingling  song? 


*  The  first  voices  by  the  male  children  who  were  in  the  area 
of  the  garden.  The  female  children  in  the  gallery  responded  in 
the  second  voice. 


WILLI  A3I  B.  TAPPAX.  167 

Second  Voices. 
Children,  ever  near  the  throne. 
Bow  in  beauteous  bands  alone; 
Cherub  harps  to  these  are  given, 
And  the  fairest  wreaths  of  heaven: 
Praises  float  along*  the  string's, 
As  they  wave  rejoicing"  wings, 
And  in  lofty  chorus  cry 
Holy  is  the  Lord,  Most  High! 

First  Voices. 
Warblers!  we  would  waken  here, 
Music  of  your  upper  sphere; 
We  would  hymn  and  worship  thus, 
Were  those  harp-notes  lent  to  us. 

First  and  Second  Voices. 
Jesus!  while  below  we  sing, 
Hallowed  incense  may  we  bring; 
Jesus,  hear  us! — take  us  where 
Children,  chosen  minstrels  are. 


WORSHIP. 

Holy  be  this,  as  was  the  place 
To  him,  of  Padan-aram  known, 

W^hen  Abram's  God  revealed  his  face 
And  caught  the  pilgrim  to  the  throne : 


168  THE  POEMS  OF 

O,  how  transporting-  was  the  glow 

That  thrilled  his  bosom,  mixed  with  fear,, 

"Lo!  the  Eternal  walks  below — 
The  Highest  tabernacles  here!" 

Be  ours,  when  faith  and  hope  grow  dim, 

The  glories  that  the  Patriarch  saw; 
And  when  we  faint,  may  we  like  him 

Fresh  vigour  from  the  vision  draw. 
Heaven's  lightning  hovered  o'er  his  head, 

And  flashed  new  splendours  on  his  view, — 
Break  forth,  thou  Sex!  and  freely  shed 

Glad  rays  upon  our  Bethel  too. 

'Tis  ours  to  soj  ourn  in  a  waste 

Barren  and  cold  as  Shinar's  ground; 
No  fruits  of  Eshcol  charm  the  taste, 

No  streams  of  Meribah  are  found,. — 
But  Thou  canst  bid  the  desert  bud 

With  more  than  Sharon's  rich  display; 
And  Thou  canst  bid  the  cooling  flood 

Gush  from  the  rock  and  cheer  the  way. 

We  tread  the  path  thy  people  trode, 

Alternate  sunshine,  bitter  tears; 
Go  Thou  before,  and  with  thy  rod 

Divide  the  Jordan  of  our  fears. 
Be  ours  the  song  of  triumph  given, 

Angelic  themes  to  lips  of  clay, — 
And  ours  the  holy  harp  of  heaven, 

Whose  strain  dissolves  the  soul  away, 


WILLIAM  B.  TAPPAN.  169 


ABISBAL  S  INVOCATION. 

Haste,  foes  of  my  country!  to  battle  advance, 
To  their  prey  loose  the  war-dog's  of  rapine  again; 

Let  the  fleur-de-lis  symbol  of  slavery  and  France, 
The  flag"  of  the  tyrant,  wave  proudly  o'er  Spain! 

Nay,  cease  not  your  curses  on  him  that  once  led 
Your  forces,  Castilians!  to  vanquish  or  fall; 

Who  fought  for  his  birthright,  his  kindred,  yet  fled 
From  the  shrine  of  his  worship  at  treachery's  call. 

For  what  is  his  country  or  kindred  to  him 

Who  laughs  at  the  birthright  by  villainy  sold? 

Hence,  Honour!  the  light  that  plays  o'er  thee  is  dim, 
Eclipsed  by  the  lustre  of  royalty's  gold. 

O,  it  glads  me  when  vengeance  falls  ripe  on  the  fools 
Who  to  anarchy  yield  the  just  rights  of  the  crown; 

Base  plebeians !  they  reck  not  themselves  are  but  tools 
Which  the  foot  of  the  strong  shall  to  dust  trample 
down. 

Advance,  Angouleme !  and  deep,  deep  to  its  hilt, 
In  the  heart  of  the  generous  bury  thy  steel; 

Nay,  start  not,  e'en  murder  is  'reft  of  its  guilt, 
When  the  hell-brooded  act  is  for  monarchv's  weal. 


*  The  Spanish  General,  infamous  for  his  treason,  during  the 
invasion  of  Spain  by  the  armies  of  Louis  XVIII.  in  1323, 


i70 


THE  POEMS  OF 


Thou  Genius  of  Slavery!  with  pestilent  breath — 
Thou  night-angel !  compass  their  armies  about; 

That  the  swords  which  have  pierced  Gallia's  eagle 
to  death, 
At  the  lily  of  Bourbon  may  fear  to  flash  out. 

Shout,  shout,  Imperator!   Magnanimous  Czar! 

Protector  of  nations!  thy  triumph's  complete, 
Or  shall  be,  when  quenched  is  the  patriot's  star, 

When  the  last  pulse  of  liberty  ceases  to  beat. 


scio.— 1822. 

Beautiful  Scio!  thou  wast  fair, 

Gem  of  the  Archipelago! 
Thou  shone st  like  morning's  lovely  star 

Rivalling  its  sisters; — thine  the  glow 
Of  skies,  deliciously  serene, 

Along4  thy  vales  the  evergreen 
The  vine  and  olive  flourished, — 

Thy  maidens  dwelt  with  innocence, 
Thy  young  men,  Liberty  had  nourished, 

Her  proud  invincible  defence; 
Beautiful  Scio!  thou  wast  fair, 

Gem  of  the  Archipelago! 
At  morn,  a  voice  was  heard  in  thee, 

It  was  the  voice  of  gladness, — 
The  star  of  peace  arose  on  thee, 

'Tis  shrouded  now  in  sadness! 


WILLIAM  B.  TAPPAN.  171 

Star  of  the  Grecian!  thou  hast  set 

In  darkness,  o'er  yon  Eden-isle; 
Thine  altars  fall'n,  the  minaretf 

Rises  o'er  tears,  and  blood,  and  spoil! 
And  thou  art  now  a  hideous  wild 

Where  reckless  Ruin  drives  its  share 
O'er  hapless  mother  and  the  child; 

Beautiful  Scio!   once  so  fair, 
Gem  of  the  Archipelago! 


I  LOVE  THE  BOSOM  THAT  CAN  FEEL. 

I  love  the  bosom  that  can  feel 
The  griefs  which  mortals  know; 

I  love  the  lip  whose  accents  heal 
The  wounds  of  tearful  wo. 

The  eve  that  beams  with  pity's  gem, 

Is  bright  to  every  view ; 
Its  lustre  shades  the  diadem, 

Or  ruby's  sparkling  hue. 

In  forms  that  fly  to  misery's  aid, 

To  dry  the  orphan's  tear — 
Are  winning  grace  and  ease  displayed, 

Unrivalled  by  compeer. 

Sweet  is  Apollo's  silver  strain, 
And  Sappho's  melting  air, 


17'J  THE   POEMS  OF 

Sweeter  the  words  that  soften  f 
And  banish  sad  desr 

"Woman !   while  these  unite  in  thee, 

We  own  thy  magic  skill: 
And  every  heart  though  proudly  free, 

1-  vanquished  at  thy  will. 


WHY  WEEFEST  THOF  ! 

Doth  gloomy  fate  with  sullen  frown 

Consume  thy  soul  with  care  ' 
Hast  thou  the  draught  of  misery  known 

"Whose  drecrs  are  dark  despair' 
Art  thou  oppressed  with  sorrow's  doom, 

Thy  heart  with  anguish  torn : 
O,  soon  that  sad  and  cheerless  gloom 

Shall  wake  a  brighter  morn : 
Then  why  should  sorrow  wring  thy  brow* 
mourner  say,    "  why  weepest  thou"'" 

Doth  tender  love  bedeck  the  bier, 

Is  dust  with  dust  inurned  5 
Has  one,  affection  prized  most  dear, 

To  heaven  and  God  returned' 
The  beauteous  flower  that  charms  the  eye. 

And  decks  the  smiling-  plain. 


WILLIAM  B.  TA.PPAN.  173 

With  winter's  blast  doth  fade  and  die, 

But  dies  to  bloom  again; 
Then  why  should  sorrow  wring  thy  brow ? 
Say  mourner,  say,    "why  weepest  thou?" 


AND    I    SAID,    O  THAT  I  HAD  WIXGS  LIKE  A  DOVE,     FOR 
THEN  WOULD  I  FLY  AWAT  AND  BE  AT  REST. -DAVID. 

The  soul  that  wings  her  airy  flight 

To  yonder  fields  of  starry  blue, 
"With  rapture  greets  empyrion  light, 

And  basks  in  pleasures  ever  new; 
And  if — enthroned  in  bliss  above, 

She  bends  a  lingering  look  below, 
Doth  not  some  throb  of  pity  move, 

For  those  that  tread  this  vale  of  wo  ? 

O !  could  I  stretch  my  pathless  way 

To  climes  afar,  how  small  would  seem 
The  griefs  that  cloud  this  feeble  day, 

The  joys  that  gild  life's  passing  dream: 
Then  would  I  smile — the  secret  tear, 

If  tear  might  wet  those  courts  of  joy, 
Would  flee,  and  love,  serene,  endear 

The  angel  bliss  that  ne'er  can  cloy. 

Yet,  courage !  though  the  angry  storm 
Hath  spent  its  force  around  thy  head; 

Though  sorrow  lurks  in  every  form, 
And  all  but  trembling  hope  hath  fled: 
p2 


174  THE  POEMS  OF 

Yet  burns  there  still  a  steady  ray, 

For  those  that  weep  in  sunless  gloom, 

The  Star  that  points  the  wanderer's  way, 
Religion — shines  bevond  the  tomb! 


YEARS  PAST YEARS  TO  COME. 

Years!  ended  years!  tell  us,  were  not 

Your  moments  given,  that  man  might  soon, 

Valued  and  used,  without  a  blot, 

Or  blush,  restore  the  gracious  boon? 

Yet  is  the  glorious  gift  defiled 

With  deep-writ  characters  of  shame; 

Lust  of  the  world,   and  passion  wild, 
And  mad  ambition's  guilty  flame. 

Where  harps  and  hymns  of  beauty  sound 
Ye're  gone,  earth's  discord  to  declare ; 

And  in  eternity  is  found 

Each  wasted  horn*,  a  witness  there. 

Yea,  and  a  ransom  is  not  known, 
Nor  bribe,  to  rescue  moments  fled; 

All  else  redeem!  but  these,  once  flown. 
We  may  not — they  are  with  the  dead. 

Departed  hours!  and  must  ye  die? 
None  rescued,   of  ye  all,   for  God  ,- 


WILLIAM  B.    TAPPAN.  175 

Pearls  without  price !  and  do  ye  lie 
Buried  with  years  beyond  the  flood } 

Not  wholly  so — across  the  night 

That  else  had  wrapt  us  in  its  shade; 

The  finger,  dipt  in  lovely  light 
Of  holy  hope  and  heaven,  is  laid: 

And  in  its  shining  beams  is  seen 

The  christian  army's  onward  march; 

Whose  spears  are  of  immortal  sheen, 
Whose  banner  is  the  rainbow's  arch 

Of  promise,  to  a  fallen  world, 

That  sin's  advancing,  whelming"  wave, 

While  Mercy's  symbol  is  unfurled, — 
Shall  not  be  a  redeemless  grave. 

Onward,  they  go;  of  various  hue, 
And  tribes  of  east  and  western  sun; 

But  kindred  is  the  hope  in  view, 
The  warriors  of  the  Cross  are  one. 

And  mid  their  closing  ranks,  behold 

The  Ark,  the  Church  of  God!  the  song', 

Beneath  where  wings  of  glory  fold, 
Goes  up  in  grandeur  from  the  throng. 

Onward!  the  battle  is  the  Lord's, 

To  wage  triumphant  war  with  sin; 
To  die,  and  reach  sublime  rewards, 

To  fall,  and  yet  the  conquest  win. 


176  THE  POEMS  OF 

Years  may  pass  on,   and  all  that  earth 

Imperishable  deemed,  may  fade; 
And  Time,  that  marked  her  empires'  birth, 

See  them  in  his  sepulchre  laid; 

Yet  onward,   o'er  the  mighty  wreck, 
Shall  press  the  immortal  victor  band; 

And  rebel  nations  bow  the  neck 
To  Him  whose  is  the  heathen  land. 

Till  o'er  a  world  by  love  subdued, 

Hig'h  Heaven  takes  up  the  conqueror's  strain; 
And  voices  of  earth's  multitude, 

Repeat  the  joyful  song-  again. 

O  God!  while  moments  mark  their  round, 

Still  guard  us  in  that  mortal  fray; 
And  o'er  us,  in  thy  battles  found, 

Reveal  the  star  of  victory's  day. 


WHEN  THOU  CALMLY  SLEEPEST. 

"When  thou  calmly  sleepest  in  the  dust,  love ! 

And  on  thy  grave  the  tall  grass  grows, 
Will  it  be  thine  to  think  of  him,  love! 

Whose  widowed  tear,  in  secret  flows? 

When  thou  gladly  seekest  thy  native  bowers, 
And  revellest  in  thy  Eden  bliss, 


WILLIAM  B.  TAPPAX.  177 

Wilt  thou  not,  as  thou  weavest  yon  world's  flowers, 
Lend  a  thought  to  the  few  Love  gave  in  this* 

"When  mortality's  tie  is  loosed,   and  never 

Shall  delights  that  have  charmed  thee,  charm  thee 
more, 

When  the  cloud  of  grief  has  gone,  and  forever, 
And  the  sigh  and  tear  alike,  are  o'er; 

Say,   wilt  thou  not,  sometimes,  love! 

Awhile,  leave  the  shrines  that  ceaseless  burn; 
And  warmed  with  the  glow  of  remembrance,  love! 

To  the  scenes  of  affection,  fondly  return? 

O,  surely,  thy  spirit  will  meet  in  heaven, 

Some  dear  reminiscence  of  days  that  have  flown; 

And  the  thought  that  to  the  past  is  given, 

Will  be  pure  as  the  holiest  before  the  throne! 


O  COME  FROM  A  WORLD. 

O  coxe  from  a  world  were  sorrow  and  gloom 

Chastise  the  allurements  of  joy; 
A  pathway  bedimmed,  with  no  rays  to  illume, 
Save  the  meteor  that  shines  to  destroy; 
Where  the  thoughtless  have  revelled  when  mirth 

had  no  charm, 
Where  the  wounded  have  wept,   but  still  needed 
the  balm. 


178  THE  POEMS  OF 

O  come  from  a  world  where  the  landscape  is  chill. 

Or  deceitfully  blossoming'  fair, 
The  garden  gives  promise  of  bright  flowers,  still 
The  night-shade  luxuriates  there: 
That  sky  now  serene  blushing  lovely  and  clear, 
O  heed  not  its  beauty,  the  storm  cloud  is  near. 

O  come  from  a  world  where  the  cup  of  delight 

Now  sparkles  and  foams  at  the  brim; 
For  the  laurels  that  wreath  it  reflection  shall  blight, 
Its  lustre,  repentance  shall  dim: 
The  lips  that  convivial  have  pledg-ed  thee  the  bowl, 
Shall  blanch  with  confusion  when  fear  rives  the 
soul. 

O  come  from  a  world  where  they  that  beguile 

Will  lead  thee  to  peril  and  fears; 
For  the  heart  that  confiding  has  welcomed  its  smile, 
Has  found  it  the  prelude  to  tears: 
Come  then,  there's  a  path  by  the  reckless  untrod, 
O  come,  weary  wanderer!  it  leads  to  thy  God, 


WILLIAM  B.  TAPPAtf.  179 

I  dreamed  of  loveliness.     The  gay  romance 
Of  vagrant  fancy,  in  fair  vision  came. — 
Hope  waved  her  wings,  and  Expectation,  big 
With  promise,  hovered.     On  a  river's  brink 
Methought  I  stood,  whose  tranquil  waters  slept 
Beneath  the  sunbeam.     Mighty  vessels  rode 
Upon  the  curling  billow.     The  tall  barque, 
Her  streamers  floating  on  the  breeze,  urged  on, 
With  Laughter  at  the  helm,  and  one 
Built  by  the  hand  of  Pleasure  for  her  own, 
Sped  foremost  of  the  train.     A  lovely  skiff, 
By  fairy  toil  apportioned.     Her  light  prow, 
Glided  in  beauty  o'er  the  sparkling  deep, 
With  speed  that  mocked  the  dolphin.    Her  white  sail, 
As  now  it  caught  the  sun's  reflected  ray, 
Coursing  along  the  waters,  to  the  eye, 
Seemed  like  a  fleecy  cloud,  with  burnished  skirts, 
Descending  from  its  height  to  kiss  the  wave. 
Her  freight  was  Childhood.     Suddenly  the  sun 
Withdrew  his  fires,  and  night  usurped  the  day. 
The  tempest  gathered,  and  rude  startling  peals 
Rolled  o'er  the  firmament.     With  fitful  scream, 
The  affrighted  sea-bird  fled  its  troubled  nest, — 
The  deep  rose  up  to  heaven,  the  lurid  glare 
Of  lightning  flashed  on  death — I  saw  no  more. 
Again  I  looked,  the  barque  had  disappeared, 
But  ever  and  anon  the  rifted  tide 
Disclosed  the  shattered  rib,  or  broken  spar, 
Sole  relics  of  its  beauty.     Men  beheld, 
And  some  with  apathy — some  mourned.  I  dreamed 
Yet  once  again,  and  to  my  view  was  one 


180  THE  POEMS  OF 

Who  walked  in  youthful  beauty,  the  desired 

Of  many  hearts,  object  of  tender  love. — 

O  he  was  fair,  his  cheek  had  stolen  the  dye 

Of  May's  first  bud, — his  eye  spake  the  delight 

Of  artless  boyhood.     On  his  open  brow 

Sat  the  calm  look  of  cheerfulness,  and  there 

Truth  seemed  to  dwell.   None  knew  him  but  to  love : 

Yea,  he  rejoiced  in  pure  affection's  ray, 

That  on  his  warm  heart  shone,  reflecting"  thence 

Its  holy  peace,  its  true  tranquillity. 

He  looked  abroad  to  heaven  in  conscious  j  oy, 

And  saw  his  sun  yet  in  its  morning-  course. 

The  stern  death-angel  came  and  he  was  not! 

A  heart- wrung*  father  pressed  his  snowy  lip, 

A  mother  agonized  upon  her  child, — 

The  grave  received  him, — I  awoke  and  wept. 


IS  IT  NOT  A  LITTLE  ONE. 

GENESIS,   XIX.   20. 

Of  all  the  varied  cheats  in  life, 
To  which  misguided  mortals  run, 

There's  none  with  sorer  evils  rife, 
Than  "Isit  not  a  little  one?" 

When  strong  allurement  leads  astray, 
How  fair  the  web  by  flattery  spun — 

The  ready  opiate  smooths  the  way, 
Sure  " Is  it  not  a  little  one?" 


WILLIAM  B.  TAPPAN.  181 

Curst  avarice,  to  itself  unkind, 

"Would  even  life's  best  blessing's  shun, 

And  hoarding"  pelf,  deceive  the  mind, 
With   "  Is  it  not  a  little  one  ?" 

The  youth,  debauched  in  folly's  maze, 
Health,  fame,  and  fortune,  all  undone, 

Too  late  the  whispering'  cheat  betrays, 
Of  "Is  it  not  a  little  one?" 

Intemperance,  murdering  life,  and  soul, 
"Would  fain  reflection's  moment  shun? 

And  says:  replenishing1  the  bowl, 
Sure  " Is  it  not  a  little  one?" 

Beguiled  by  love's  seducive  strain, 

The  hapless  maiden  is  undone  5 
"While  listening  to  the  falsehood  vain, 

Of  "Is  it  not  a  little  one?" 

Beware  fond  youth,  its  fell  control, 

This  fatal  source  of  ruin  shun; 
Reflect  in  time,  nor  cheat  the  soul, 

With  "  Is  it  not  a  little  one  ?" 


"Wearied  with  play,  that  night,  my  Mortimer 
Betimes  had  sunk  to  slumber,  and  he  now 
Quietly  nestled  on  his  pillow,  that 
To  innocence  and  childhood  lent  sweet  visions. 


182  l HE  POEMS  01 

He  slept,  unheeding*  the  wild  storm  which  held, 

That  winter  nig-ht,  rude  empire.     All  within 

Was  quiet, — midnight's  stern  serenity 

Dwelt  in  each  chamber,  and  that  house  was  still 

And  calm,  in  the  repose  of  loneliness. 

He  is  my  eldest,  and  a  parent  may 

Indulg-e  his  love.     Wrapt  in  his  dreams  he  lay, 

Tranquil  and  happy,  seeming-.     He  is  fair, 

Yet  fairer  seemed  he  than  his  wont  in  sleep. 

His  rounded  arms  were  folded,  as  if  toil 

Were  ended  now,  and  he  in  balmy  rest 

Should  find  new  vig-our  for  the  coming-  day. 

His  flaxen  hair  lay  carelessly  upon 

His  polished  brow,  and  there  many  a  curl 

Rioted  in  luxuriance.     The  red  lips, 

That  pouted  at  my  lightest  kiss,  half  closed, 

Spake  to  beholders  that  within  was  peace. 

Near  him  slept  Henry,  young-er,  frailer  too; 

A  tender  plant  that  seemed  not  formed  to  bear 

The  ruder  winds  of  life.     He  slumbered  where 

He  coveted  to  slumber — in  her  arms 

Who  g-ave  him  life.     A  mother's  love  was  there 

To  shield  her  darling-  boy;  and  dearer  now 

To  her  sad  bosom  was  that  little  one, 

And  closer  to  her  heart  she  pressed  him,  as  if  fear 

Had  taug-ht  her,  he  too,  should  that  couch  forsake. 

For  one  was  not — William,  that  lovely  one — 

William,  that  constantly  had  slumbered  there 

With  his  twin-brother,  shared  not  now  that  bed: 

He  too  had  g-one  to  rest — a  rest  how  sweet — 

How  holy! — In  a  farther  room  he  lay, 

Wrapt  in  the  robe  of  whiteness  that  adorns 


WILLIAM  B.  TAPPAN.  183 

Departed  innocence.     O,  how  composed, 

Sublime,  was  that  deep  sleep !     Still  he  slept  on 

In  all  the  beauty,  all  the  loveliness 

That  late  adorned  him.     Sickness  had  not  stolen 

One  grace  that  death  had  not  threefold  restored; 

He  lay  before  me  in  his  coffin,  there 

So  tranquil,  that  unto  my  stricken  heart 

I  said:  he  is  not  dead, — my  boy  but  sleeps. — 

Aye,  long*  might  I  believe  so,  were  it  not 

For  the  fixed  impress,  still — something"  severe — 

Even  in  smiles,  that  death  doth  always  wear. 


MUSIC    OF  LIGHT. 

Ere  Eden  blossomed  wild, 

Or  earth  received  a  form, 
Ere  the  Eternal  voice 

Called  sunshine  from  the  storm; 
Ere  on  chaotic  deep 

The  empire  of  old  night — 
God  looked,  and  tumult  fled, 

God  spake,  and  all  was  Light; 
Music,  first  born  of  heaven, 

Left  not  her  natal  bower, 
'Till  Ag'es'  chronicler 

Proclaimed  Creation's  hour; 
The  strain  of  harmony 

The  depths  had  never  heard, 


184  THE  POEMS  OF 

There  Silence  reared  her  throne, 
Till  Light  and  Song*  appeared. 

Then  in  their  choral  spheres 

Rej  oicing-  planets  ran, 
Then,  sovereign  of  the  world, 

Arose  immortal  Man! 
Then  heard  the  Star  of  Morn, 

Along*  the  wavy  air, 
Soft  strains  of  Music  float 

That  Seraphim  might  share; 
Unearthly  was  the  sound, 

It  spake  to  raptured  sight; 
And  subtle  sense  received 

The  Melody  of  Light. 

Sweet  was  the  dulcet  strain, 

Loud  the  ascending  song, 
That  o'er  the  eternal  plain 

Mellifluous  rolled  along; 
And,  say!  when  Deity 

Alone  sublimely  stood, 
And  blest  a  virgin  world 

And  called  his  labour  "  good"- 
Broke  not  forth  brighter  rays 

Of  glory,  o'er  the  whole  ? 
Say,  woke  not  He  a  chord 

Of  Music,  to  the  soul! 


Ages  passed  by,  and  He, 

The  Paschal  Lamb  was  slain; 


WILLIAM  B.  TAPPAN.  185 

Death  held  not  Deity, 

Immanuel  rose  again; 
Now  o'er  the  darksome  tomb, 

The  couch  on  which  He  lay, 
Lo,  Resurrection  pours 

Floods  of  undying*  Day; 
Say!   is  not  Music  there 

Where  Light  and  Life  are  shed? 
Yes!  and  mankind  shall  share 

Those  strains,  when  worlds  have  fled. 


THE  PRISON. 

They  have  built  ye  firmly,  frowning  walls ! 

With  the  iron  and  the  stone ; 
And  cheerless  is  your  prison  house, 

Where  the  wretch  may  sigh  alone, 

Unto  the  lost  one,  here,  may  years 

Of  grief  unnoted  roll; 
Thou  art,  unsated  sullen  tomb! 

The  Bastile  of  the  soul. 

Within  your  cold  damp-dripping  cell, 

Unseen  by  human  eye, 
Methinks  'tis  horrible  to  dwell, 

Less  dreadful  'twere  to  die. 
a2 


186  THE  POEMS  OF 

To  know  that  the  bright  blessed  sun, 

It  was  not  mine  to  see; 
That  spring"  should  bloom  and  summer  smile, 

Yet  bloom  nor  smile  for  me — 

To  listen  for  the  voice,  or  tread 

Of  man,  yet  list  in  vain; 
Thoughts  of  the  dying  and  the  dead, 

Than  these,  were  lesser  pain. 

Yet  to  the  lost,  abandoned  one, 

Cast  out,  yea  spurned  of  all, 
O'er  whose  fond  hopes  and  early  dreams 

Despair  has  flung  its  pall — 

To  him,  the  dead,  is  life  revealed, — 

His  dungeon-walls  are  heaven, 
When  Mercy,  breaking  through  the  gloom, 

Whispers,  "Thou  art  forgiven !" 


TO  MY  DAUGHTER  ZELIA. 

My  child!  my  child!  I  love  to  see 

Thy  careless  step,  as  thou 
Rejoicest  in  thy  infancy, 

And  infant  beauty  now. 

My  child!  my  child!  thy  pleasant  way 
Is  garnished  o'er  with  flowers; 


WILLIAM  B.  TAPPAX.  1$7 

And  thine,  as  thou  pursue st  thy  play, 
Are  young"  life's  truest  hours. 

They  fly! — they  fly! — how  soon  the  doom 

Is  thine,  to  welcome  wo; — 
And  childhood's  flowers  and  childhood's  bloom, 

How  soon  the  worm  will  know ! 

Perhaps  'twill  be  thy  lot  severe, 

To  stem  dark  sorrow's  wave; 
And  pass — no  earthly  solace  near — 

To  an  untimely  grave; 

To  tread,  in  tears,  the  weary  way, 
Thou  sawest  beloved  ones  tread; 

Thy  aching  brow  with  theirs  to  lay, 
Where  tears  no  more  are  shed. 

Or  to  thy  God,  in  early  years, 

Perhaps  thou'lt  yield  again, 
— Baptized  in  prayer  and  holy  tears — 

Thy  soul,  without  a  stain. 

To  slumber  where  thy  brothers  lie, 

— One  turf  above  the  four — 
To  bathe  in  glory  where  they  fly, 

And  j oy fully  adore. 

Yet,  freed  from  sorrows  scarcely  felt, 

And  spared  life's  dreary  doom, 
Oh,  who,  in  bitterness,  e'er  knelt 

Beside  an  infant's  tomb } 


188  THE  POEMS  OF 

To  think,  for  recollected  sin, 

It  ne'er  shall  give  the  sigh; 
To  know  that  pure  and  precious  gem 

Is  treasured  in  the  sky. 

Tliese  may  betide — beyond  the  veil 
That  He  hath  round  thee  thrown, 

Shall  dart  no  bright  and  searching  beam 
Of  prescience  but  his  own. 

Then  be  it  thine,  an  early  flower, 

To  blossom  for  the  grave; 
Or  thine  to  yield,  in  later  hour, 

Fair  bloom  to  Him  who  gave : 

Enough — lives  not  the  promise  now  ■ 
Oh  God!  when  storms  grow  wild, 

And  earth's  proud  expectations  bow, 
Thou'lt  keep  it  to  my  child, 


TO  A  DEAF  AND  DUMB  GIRL. 

I  grieve  not  Heaven  to  thee  denies 

The  attribute  of  speech^ 
When  reading  in  those  kindling  eyes, 

All  that  the  mind  can  teach; 
I  grieve  not  no  assuring  tone 

Of  love,  bids  thee  rejoice; 
Thou  favoured  one!  to  thee  is  given 

The  Spirit's  soothing  voice. 


WILLIAM   B.  TAPPA\,  1  ^^ 

I  grieve  not  that  to  thee  life's  scroll 

— Such  is  the  Eternal's  will — 
Is  unrevealed,  thy  gentle  soul 

Reads  not  that  page  of  ill; 
O,  gentle  maiden!  trace  not  thou 

Those  characters  of  fire; 
They  tell  of  wrongs,  of  bitter  strife, 

And  blight  of  fond  desire. 

The  nickering  light  that  gilds  our  day, 

On  thee  may  never  shine, 
I  grieve  not, — yonder  steady  ray 

Of  peace,  is  ever  thine; 
And  pure  and  tranquil  is  that  rest, 

Where  thought,  untroubled,  flows, 
As  waveless  ocean,  on  whose  breast 

The  moon-beam  seeks  repose. 

Shut  out  from  scenes  of  feverish  joy. 

Removed  from  grovelling  sense, 
O,  how  sublime  is  thy  employ, 

With  high  Omnipotence ! 
Far  from  the  din  of  this  low  sphere, 

Its  smiles,  or  frequent  wo, 
Thou  nearest  a  voice  we  cannot  hear, 

Of  themes  we  cannot  know. 

Thou  drinkest  of  the  crystal  well, 

Whence  living  knowledge  flows; 
Yet  on  that  fount  is  laid  the  spell, 

That  shuts  up  human  woes; 


190  THE  TOEMS  OF 

O,  never,  never  may  the  sigh 

Of  agony  severe, 
Thy  bosom  rend,  nor  that  mild  eye 

Be  dimmed  with  Misery's  tear. 


THE  WEST. 

O  te  to  whom  God's  word  reveals  its  privileges  blest, 
"Who  hold  the  pearl  without  a  price — think,  think 

upon  the  West! 
And  think,  as  every  precious  boon  of  heaven  comes 

up  in  view, 
Of  those  that  joyed  where  now  ye  joy,  that  wor- 
shipped once  with  you, 
For  we  have  left  our  sunbright  homes,  the  scenes  of 

early  day, 
Our  pleasant  hearths,  and  all  we  loved,  to  wander 

far  away, 
In  wilds  where  voice  of  Sabbath  bell  breaks  not 

upon  the  air, 
"Where  lifted  not  are  hands  in  praise,  nor  bent  the 

knee  in  prayer; 
And  where  come  o'er  the  lab'ring  heart  its  white - 

winged  happy  hours, 
"While  warm  tears  gush,  a  tribute  given  to  light  that 

once  was  ours: 
O  ye  who  bless  its  diamond  spark,  lit  up  within  the 

breast, 
Think  what  it  is  to  mourn  it  quenched, — O  think 

upon  the  West! 


WILLIAM  B.  TAPPAN.  191 

The  past! — we  fain  would  dwell  upon  the  pages  of 

the  past, 
Though  sad  it  is  to  read  of  joys  too  beautiful  to  last; 
Yet  we  will  yield  in  thought  again,  unto  his  fond 

caress 
Who  listened  to  our  lisping  prayer,  and  said  that 

God  would  bless; 
Aye,  and  we  feel  the  mother's  kiss,  which  only  she 

could  give, 
When  teaching  us  to  bow  the  heart  to  Hix  who 

bade  us  live. 
We  think,  too,  on  the  white-haired  man  who  chid 

our  careless  youth, 
And  well  remember  where  his  lips  dropped  sacred 

words  of  truth. 
And  sadly  comes  to  aching  thought,  with  memory's 

quickened  power, 
The  Bible  class,  the  Sunday-school,  and  Prayer^s 

rejoicing  hour. 
O  ye  who  revel  in  this  light,  who  hear  the  gospel 

blest, 
Give  praise  to  God,   and  succour  here,- — O  think 

upon  the  West! 

Here  where  tall  forests  wave  their  tops,  the  wild 

beast  hath  his  den, 
The  eagle  hath  her  eyry  built,  unknown  to  steps  of 

men; 
And  small  birds  hang  their  mossy  nests,  on  many  a 

branching  limb, 
And  yield  at  evening's  peaceful  hour,  their  pure  and 

joyous  hymn; 


192  THE  POEMS  OF 

But  for  us  rise  no  temple-walls,  nor  points  the  spire 

to  heaven, 
O,  many  faint  for  Bread  of  Life, — to  break  it,  none 

are  given ! 
Oft,  too,  by  men  who  lust  for  gain,  these  solitudes 

are  trod, 
Who  cast    off  fear,  refrain  from  prayer,    foes  to 

themselves  and  God; 
The  stillness  of  these  lovely  vales  is  broken  by  their 

curse  5 
By  reckless  sires  the  children  led,  soon  wax  from 

bad  to  worse. 
O  ye  that  hail  the  Sabbath  morn,  ye  with  the  Bible 

blest, 
Speed,  speed  the  Rose  of  Sharon  here  to  blossom 

in  the  West! 

Valley  of  the  Mississippi,  1830. 


WRITTEN  AT    LONG    MEADOW,   MASSACHUSETTS. 

O,  who  would  not  shun  the  hurried  din 
That  riots,  proud  city,  thy  walls  within  '■ 
Who  would  not  turn  his  pilgrim  feet 
From  the  crowded  hall  to  the  calm  retreat, 
And  climb  with  the  sun  his  native  mountain, 
And  seek  at  noon  the  favourite  fountain? 
Let  such  with  his  joys  be  far  from  me, 
I  give,  simple  scenes  !  my  love  to  ye. 
Away,  away  from  the  fevered  mart, 
Where  avarice  rules  in  the  slavish  heart, 


WILLIAM   13.   TAFPA_\,  193 

Where  all  is  soulless  and  all  is  cold, 
Save  love  of  self  and  love  of  gold. 
I  hasten  from  the  enchanter's  spell, 
To  scenes  where  nature  delights  to  dwell ; 
To  the  clime  of  my  earliest,  brightest  dreams; 
Where  on  ruder  hills,  by  purer  streams, 
Through  sunnier  vales,   'twas  mine  to  roam, 
Than  thought  ever  imaged — it  was  my  home. 
Yes,  land  of  my  childhood!   dear  art  thou, 
New  England!   dearer  to  fancy  now, 
Than  when,   as  thy  mountain  breezes  free, 
In  the  laughing  hours  of  infancy, 
From  fields  and  floods,  'twas  mine  to  borrow 
Bliss  for  the  day  and  hope  for  the  morrow. 
And  here,  where  along  romantic  shores 
Her  waters  Connecticut  proudly  pours; 
Where  the  yellow  and  purple  harvest  is  seen 
Gorgeously  waving  o'er  meadows  of  green; 
Where  the  village  spire  is  seen  to  shine 
Like  a  snowy  wreath  'mid  groves  of  pine: 
Where  the  village  bell  is  heard  in  a  tone 
Of  sadness,  as  it  seems  to  moan 
In  music,   along  the  valley  and  hill: 
Here  in  the  bosom  of  all  that's  still 
And  pure  and  holy,  the  wanderer  knew 
The  smile  of  love  and  the  greeting  true. 
Who  would  not  shun  the  hurried  din, 
That  revels,  proud  city,  thy  walls  within  I 
Who  to  the  domes  of  the  proud  would  stray, 
When  the  heart  and  its  joys  are  far  away? 


194  THE  POEMS  OF 


MISSION  SHIPS. 

What  on  thy  boundless  path  of  foam, 

Eternal,  heaving"  sea! 
Of  all  that  hail  thee  as  their  home, 

Hast  thou  most  dear  to  me ? 

The  merchant  ship  whose  precious  gums 

And  ambergris  and  gold, 
Are  heaped,  the  price  of  princely  sums, 

Deep  in  her  teeming'  hold — 

The  barque  that  gaily  seeks  the  breeze 

On  embassy  of  state; 
Round  which,  the  willing-  winds  and  seas 

Obsequious,  seem  to  wait — 

Or  the  proud  bulwark  of  the  deeps, 
Where  warring-  thunders  play : 

That,  bristling*  for  the  combat,  keeps 
Stern  watch  on  thy  highway  ? 

Not  these!  not  these!  for  still  they  bear 

Those  of  the  worldly  brow; 
And  men  disturbed  with  fruitless  care, 

Press  o'er  thy  billows  now. 

Not  these,  not  these,  O  Deep !  for  they 

Man's  purposes  perform; 
His  lusts  and  passions  to  obey, 

They  court  thy  frequent  storm. 


WILLIAM  B.  TAPPAX.  195 

But  who  are  they  that  as  a  cloud 

And  doves  are  hovering"  near; 
Bearing-  unto  the  lost  and  proud 

Their  freight  of  glorious  cheer? 

None,  bird-like,  sit  upon  thy  crest 

So  beautiful  as  these; 
None,  statelier,  have  ever  prest 

Through  thy  tall  surging"  seas. 

The  Mission  Ships! — ride  on  thy  waves 

No  treasures  like  to  them: 
Ocean,  within  thy  secret  caves, 

Is  hidden  no  such  g-em. 

For  holy  footsteps  tread  that  deck 

Of  men  that  bear  away 
Riches,  that  shall  survive  the  wreck 

Of  the  last  dooming-  day. 

And  journeys  o'er  thy  mighty  tide 

Embassage,  vast  and  high, 
From  the  world's  Monarch,  who  has  died, 

To  man  who  may  not  die. 


DESOLATION  OF  TYRE. 

IT  SHALL  BE  A  PLACE  FOR  THE  SPREADING  OF  NETS,  IX 
THE  MIDST  OF  THE  SEA.        ISAIAH. 

High  on  the  rock-embattled  steep 
That  braved  the  storm  and  flood, 


196  THE  P0E31S  OF 

Proud  mistress  of  the  foaming-  deep, 
The  queen  of  traffic  stood. 

Damascus,  Syria,  and  the  Isles 
Enriched  her  gathering*  store; 

The  ships  of  Tarshish  bore  their  spoils, 
And  Ophir  gave  the  ore. 

In  broidered  robes  her  virgins  shone, 

And  king's  confessed  her  sway; 
The  costliest  odours  were  her  own, 

The  nations  were  her  prey. 
Beautiful  were  her  graces  all, 

Yea,  of  that  city's  praise 
The  minstrel  sang*  in  bower  and  hall, 

And  strangers  came  to  gaze. 

Dim  is  her  glory,  gone  her  fame, 

Her  boasted  wealth  has  fled; 
On  her  proud  rock,  alas!   her  shame, 

The  fisher's  net  is  spread: 
The  Tyrian  harp  has  slumbered  long-, 

And  Tyria's  mirth  is  low, 
The  timbrel,  dulcimer  and  song* 

Are  hushed,  or  wake  to  wo! 


TWILIGHT  SONG  OF    SHEPHERDS  OF  THE  AXDES. 

Bexeath  the  brow  of  yonder  steep 

The  tints  of  twilight  fade: 
On  Chimberoz'  the  shadows  sleep, 

That  in  the  valley  played. 


WILLI  AM  B.  TAPPAN.  197 

Lorn  in  the  saffron-belted  west, 

The  star  of  evening-  shines; 
The  dew  is  on  the  plantain's  breast, 

And  gems  the  curling*  vines. 

My  flocks  are  sleeping-  peacefully 

Secure  from  nig-htly  ill; 
And,  watchful  guardian  over  me, 

My  dog-  is  faithful  still. 

How  sweet  the  hour  of  peaceful  thoug-ht, 

How  rich  retirement's  calm! 
How  free  its  pleasures,  for  unboug-ht 

Is  bland  contentment's  balm. 

In  this  sequestered  woodland  scene, 

Fond  love  and  peace  reside; 
While  rural  health  of  cheerful  mien, 

With  labour  doth  abide. 

Then  give  me  still  my  mountain  air, 

My  flock  and  shepherd's  nest; 
The  loved  companion  these  to  share, 

And  I  am  truly  blest. 


PRAYER  FOR  THE  DEAD! 

Prayer  for  the  dead  !  yet  pray  not  thou 
For  him  that  in  repose  is  blest; 

The  calm  and  coffined  sleeper  now, 
Where  weary  travellers  are  at  rest: 
r2 


193  THE  POEMS  OF 

Unconscious  of  the  smile  or  tear, 
Life's  blessed  sympathies  unknown, 

Thy  voice  falls  listless  on  his  ear 
Who  with  decay  is  left  alone. 

Prayer  for  the  dead!  yet  pray  not  thou 

For  him  that  girdeth  up  to  fly, 
"Where  waits  prepared  for  his  brow 

The  glorious  chaplet  of  the  sky: 
For  ever  free  from  human  ills, 

The  billows  of  this  Jordan  trod, 
He'll  drink  the  satisfying-  rills 

That  flow  fast  by  the  throne  of  God. 

Prayer  for  the  dead!  yet  pray  not  thou 

For  dwellers  'neath  the  stormy  cloud, 
O'er  which  mild  Mercy  flings  no  bow, 

The  fainting",  faithless,   and  the  proud: 
For  them  that  in  their  spirit-powers, 

And  in  immortal  madness  strong-, 
Still  buffet  the  unwasting  hours, 

And  shout  in  agony,    M  How  long/" 

Prayer  for  the  dead!  whom  from  their  sleep 

Time's  solemn  footfall  fails  to  wake, 
Whose  midnight  dreamings,  still  and  deep, 

The  judgment-trumpet  may  not  break: 
Yet  in  whose  soul,  if  there  be  shed 

Light  from  the  Cross,   new  life  begins  ; 
They  cluster  round  your  hearths — the  dead! 

The  dead  in  trespasses  and  sins. 


WILLIAM  B.  TAPPAN.  199 


SWEET  ORB  OF   3 TIGHT  !    I  SAW  THEE    RISE. 

Sweet  orb  of  night !   I  saw  thee  rise 

In  cloudless  lustre  o'er  the  plain; 
I  saw  thee  climb  the  azure  skies, 

With  radiant  splendours  in  thy  train : 
I  marked  thy  mildly  pensive  beam 

At  midnight's  still  and  hallowed  hour; 
I  watched  the  fitful,  lonely  gleam 

That  played  on  yonder  ivied  tower. 

Sweet  orb  of  night!   I  often  love 

AVhen  day  with  all  its  cares  is  o'er, 
To  wander  in  the  silent  grove, 

And  there  the  Source  of  Light  adore: 
O  then,  how  false  all  else  appears, 

AVhile  wrapt  in  awe  thy  course  I  view, 
And  see  thee  mount  the  starry  spheres, 

And  tread  the  fields  of  heavenly  blue ! 


THE  HOUSE  OF  REFUGE. 

Thou'st  seen  the  boy  in  his  bright  glow 

Of  spring-like  promising ; 
Thou'st  seen  him  in  Guilt's  vortex  low, 

An  unnamed  loveless  thing: 
And  thou  hast,   Levite-like,   passed  on, 

Or  given  the  fruitless  sigh 
To  hopes  that  budded  and  were  gone, 

To  promises  that  die. 


200  THE  POEMS  OF 

Shouldst  thou  not,  parent,  weep  o'er  him  ? 

Thou  hast  a  darling-  boy! 
O,   what  if  that  pure  ray  were  dim, 

That  lights  up  now  thy  joy? 
Mother!   that  closer  to  thy  breast, 

Pressest  thy  guileless  son — 
O,  what  if  thou  shouldst  deem  her  blest, 

The  childless  stricken  one  ? 

And  he  at  that  tribunal  now, 

Was  he  not  one  to  love  ? 
Aye,   on  that  early -troubled  brow, 

Sat  meekness  like  a  dove : 
And  those  bent  eyes,  in  happiness, 

Gave  once  the  laugh  to  care; 
And  that  wan  face  wore  cheerfulness, 

That  boyhood  loves  to  wear. 

ls't  fit  that  one  so  fair  and  young*, 

Should  be  cast  out  from  men? 
Be  heedlessly  to  ruin  flung, 

As  though  he  ne'er  had  been? 
Bethink  thee,   Admonition's  lip 

Might  win  him  from  that  way; 
And  now,  well  warned,  he  would  not  sip 

The  sweets  where  danger  lay. 

O,  save  him! — yea,  I  know  thou  wilt, 
Thou  canst  not  bid  him  dwell 

Where  the  cursed  air  breathes  only  guilt, 
Within  the  felon's  cell: 

The  Refuge!   angels  bless  the  plan, 
That,  while  it  holds  the  rod, 


WILLIAM  B.  TAPPAN.  201 


Restores  a  fallen  man  to  man, 
A  wanderer  to  God. 


When  the  British  army  was  advancing  upon  Plattsburg  in  so- 
lid column,  a  small  detachment  of  the  American  artillery  with  a 
single  field-piece,  kept  up  an  incessant  retreating  fire  upon  their 
enemy.  These  discharges  made  dreadful  havoc  ;  but  the  voice  of 
the  British  commander  was  di-tinctly  heard,  saying,  Fill  up  .'Jill 
up  .'  Jill  up  :"  and  the  column  closed,  as  if  regardless  of  the  effect, 
and  were  not  retarded  by  the  loss  of  a  number  killed  and  wound- 
ed. 

The  case  is  applicable  to  the  Christian  cause.  When  some 
fall  in  one  station  and  some  in  another,  methinks  I  hear  the  great 
Captain  of  our  salvation  saying  to  his  faithful  soldiers,  "  Fill  up! 
fill  up  !  fill  up  ln  And  I  rejoice  to  know  that  their  places  are 
filling  up  with  heroic  ardour  ;  and  that  the  progress  of  the  gospel 
will  by  no  means  l>e  retarded  because  death  makes  his  inroads  ; 
but  rather  that  the  whole  Christian  army  will  be  excited  to  dou- 
ble their  efForts,  till  the  last  victory  is  achieved.— Chr.  Watch* 

A  thousand  warriors  to  the  charge, 

Bold-hearted  men — have  sprung* ; 
In  thunders  of  the  cannon's  voice 

Their  passing-  dirge  is  sung*: 
And  thousands  more  at  call  of  drum 

Are  rushing-  on  the  foe,; 
Fill  up!  Fill  up! — like  those  they  come — 

Like  those  to  slumber  low. 

They  fall,  and  'tis  a  fading-  leaf 

Earth  gives  unto  her  slain  ;    * 
They  die,  'tis  in  Fame's  trumpet  song 

Her  heroes  live  again. 


202  THE  POE3IS  OF 

And  such  her  glory! — who  has  not, 

In  bitterness  of  soul, 
Mused  on  the  mighty,  now  forgot, 

Once  blazoned  on  her  scroll  ? 

Not  such  is  your  triumphant  gain, 

Ye  followers  of  the  cross! 
Compared  with  that  which  ye  obtain, 

The  universe  were  loss: 
Your  leader  is  the  Crucified, 

Whose  death  was  Death's  defeat; 
And  with  him  battling*  at  your  side, 

Your  victory's  complete. 

Not  such  your  banner-folds  that  wave 

To  endless  life  alone, 
That  float  above  the  soldier's  grave, 

And  flash  upon  his  throne. 
Yea,  from  the  consecrated  field 

Where  Christ's  brave  legions  He, 
Is  rising  other  monument 

Of  names  that  cannot  die. 

Then  see,  where  press  the  vigorous  siege, 

Yon  gallant,   glorious  few; 
They  give  their  heart's-blood  for  their  liege, 

And  straight  are  wrapt  from  view : 
In  Afric,   China  and  Bengal 

Their  bones  in  waiting  lie; 
"  Fill  up  our  ranks.'"  to  us  they  call, 

"Fill  up!  Jill  up/"  we  cry." 


WILLIAM  B.  TAPPAN.  203 

Yea,  from  the  nurseries  of  the  church, 

The  youthful  conscripts  come  ; 
And  as  their  martyr  comrades  fall, 

Rejoicing-,  take  their  room: 
And  deeper  joy  that  mother  knows 

Than  in  her  first-born's  kiss, 
When,  strong*  in  faith,  that  first-born  goes 

On  warfare,  such  as  this. 


HAPPINESS WHERE  IS  IT  I 

Is  it  in  wealth?    Go,   probe  the  breast 
Of  fortune's  favourite  heir: 

And  why  doth  woe  that  heart  infest, 
And  ang-uish  canker  there  ? 

Is  it  in  fame  ?  Its  empty  breath, 

Inconstant  as  the  breeze, 
Will  blast,   ere  long-,  the  laurel  wreath 

That  late  it  formed  to  please. 

Is  it  in  friendship,  or  in  love  ? 

Alas!  they  soon  decay: 
The  tears  of  disappointment  prove 

How  feeble  is  their  stay. 

'Tis  not  in  all  that  here  excels, 

'Tis  not  in  Folly's  round; 
Look  upward,  mortal,  there  it  dwells, 

And  onlv  there  is  found. 


204  THE  POEMS  OF 


I  HAVE  NEVER  SEEN  THE  RIGHTEOUS  FORSAKEN. 

I've  seen  the  heir  of  guilt  and  wo, 
And  watched  his  wandering"  eye; 

I've  seen  the  tear  of  anguish  flow, 
And  heard  the  troubled  sigh. 

I've  seen  the  victim  of  despair, 

A  prey  to  want  and  sin; 
I've  looked  upon  his  brow  when  there 

Was  writ  the  curse  within. 

I've  seen  the  lordling  roll  in  state, 

And  swell  with  bloated  pride; 
I've  seen  when  at  the  poor  man's  gate, 

The  wretched  outcast  died. 

I've  seen  the  youth,  whom  pleasure's  round 

Had  early  taught  to  stray  ; 
And  those  that  by  intemperance  found 

The  flowery,  fatal  way. 

These  I  have  seen,  but  never  yet 

Have  seen  the  child  of  prayer 
Abandoned  by  his  God,  to  eat 

The  bitter  bread  of  care. 


WILLIAM  B.   TAPPAX.  205 

ON    3IY    FRIEND    PPvESEXTIXG    HIS    IXFANT    AT 
THE  BAPTISMAL  FOXT. 

That  cherub  bloom  which  vies  the  rose, 
Was  wet  with  fond  paternal  tears; 

The  love  that  but  a  parent  knows, 

Has  dewed  the  child  of  hopes  and  fears. 

With  rapture  has  the  father  prest 
Those  parting-  lips  of  coral  hue, 

While,  pillowed  on  the  mother's  breast, 
Her  wistful  smile  has  blest  it  too. 

But  other  dews  have  wet  that  brow, 
And  other,  brig-liter  g-ems  are  there, 

The  drops  that  from  the  altar  flow — 
The  tears  of  mingled  faith  and  prayer. 

Sweet  the  emotions  that  reveal 

Affection's  ever  living-  flood, 
But  lovelier,  holier  is  the  seal 

That  consecrates  the  child  to  God. 


YE  DEAD 


Ye  Dead!   ye  Dead!   your  rest  is  sweet, 

From  dreamy  trouble  free; 
The  labouring-  heart  forg-ets  to  beat 

Beneath  the  alder  tree: 


206  THE  POEMS  OF 

O,  gladly,  'neath  the  grassy  turf 

The  care-worn  would  recline  5 
Or  'neath  the  wave  where  fairy  hands 

Bedeck  the  lowly  shrine. 
Ye  Dead!  ye  Dead!  he  comes!  he  comes! 

And  he  that  woke  to  weep. 
Shall  bosom  every  secret  ill 

Where  ye  long"  vigils  keep. 

Ye  solitary  relics,  pent 

In  earth,  to  earth  a  prey; 
Ye  voiceless  lips  how  eloquent 

To  me  is  your  decay! 
O,  sweet  the  consecrated  soil, 

Where  pilgrims  cease  to  roam, 
Where  fainting'  mortals  end  their  toil, 

And  misery  finds  a  home : 
And  sweet  the  couch  where  coral  wreaths, 

Deep  in  the  surging-  brine, 
In  ocean's  dark  unfathomed  caves, 

The  sleeping  dust  entwine. 

Unwept,  they  sank  to  lasting  sleep, 

When  tempests  rode  the  cloud; 
Or  when  the  night  star  paled  the  deep, 

The  deep  became  their  shroud. 
Think  not  for  those  who  press  that  bed 

No  seemly  knell  is  rung; 
Think  not  no  rites  embalm  the  dead, 

Nor  holy  hymn  is  sung; 
Heard  ye  not  on  the  midnight  wave, 

When  whispered  anthems  stole } 


WILLIAM  B.  TAPPAN.  207 

?Twas  o'er  the  sea-boy's  early  gTave, 
A  requiem  for  his  soul. 

Dear  to  the  shipwrecked  is  the  port 

"Where,  on  a  stormless  sea, 
His  barque  rides  safe  from  every  gale, 

From  shoals  and  quicksands  free. 
Dear  to  the  wanderer  is  the  star 

That  points  his  doubtful  way, 
That  cheers  and  guides  him  when  afar 

His  faltering-  footsteps  stray. 

And  dear  the  hour  when  I  this  head, 

May  pillow  on  its  rest, 
When  I,  amid  the  thronging"  dead, 

Shall  be  a  welcome  guest; 
O,  dear  to  me  that  last  repose, 

"Where  I  this  wasting  form 
May  shelter  'neath  the  opening  rose, 

That  knows  no  wintry  storm. 


ARARAT. 

OCCASIONED  BY  READING  THE  ACCOUNT  OF  THE  PRO- 
JECTED JEWISH  SETTLEMENT  ON  GRAND  ISLAND, 
NEW  YORK. 

And  the  Ark  vested  upon  the  mountains  of  Ararat. — Bible, 

Ararat  !   on  thy  brow  of  blighted  green, 
That  morn,  the  pilgrim-ark  was  seen, 


208  THE  POEMS  OF 

When  the  waste  of  waters,  rebuked,  had  fled, 

And  a  world  restored,  looked  out  from  the  dead. 

That  weeping-  world — Could  Jehovah  forget 

The  work  he  had  made  and  blessed!      O  yet 

That  hour  was  seen,  a  God  revealing' 

Himself  in  love  to  the  patriarch  kneeling*. 

The  light  of  his  mercy  shone  abroad 

On  the  mighty  wine-press,  "Wrath  had  trod; 

And  above,  in  glorious  pomp  reclining, 

The  beautiful  bow  of  promise  shining, 

As  it  flung  along  the  rejoicing  sky 

Its  noble  arch  of  Eternity's  dye — 

Seemed  in  its  strength  to  link,  like  some 

Bright  chain,  this  world  with  the  world  to  come. 

The  bow  of  God  abides  in  its  splendour, 

And  His  love  who  spanned  it,  is  yet  tender 

And  bright  and  warm  in  its  living  glow, 

As  the  mellow  tints  of  that  radiant  bow: 

Ararat  in  verdure  lifts  its  head, 

As  it  did  ere  that  morn  of  life,  from  the  dead; 

And  greener  its  olive  flourishes  now, 

Than  when  the  spent  dove  reposed  on  its  bough. 

That  messenger-bird  found  her  wonted  nest, 

But  Israel!   where  is  the  place  of  thy  rest? 

In  love,  God  withdrew  his  curtain  of  billows 

From  the  world  he  had  whelmed,  where  men  made 

their  pillows 
In  death,  when  the  Just,  the  Avenger  was  there, 
Yet  not  for  support  in  that  dream  of  despair. 
The  light  of  his  anger  forever  passed  by, 
"When  his  rainbow  of  peace  blushed  out  on  the  sky; 


WILLIAM  B.  TAPPAX.  209 

In  its  scabbard  is  hidden  the  flame  of  the  sword, 
Where  then  is  his  temple — the  ark  of  the  Lord? 
Rejoice!  for  the  ark  of  the  Lord  is  here — 
His  glory  looks  out  in  the  penitent's  tear; 
With  the  humble  in  heart  Jehovah  is  found, 
"Where  the  contrite  prays  is  holy  ground. 
Then  ye  that  build! — O  build  to  His  Name, 
"Who  died,  who  rose,  and  lives  to  reclaim 
From  sin  and  its  pains  his  ransomed  own; 
"Whose  was  the  suffering- — whose  is  the  throne. 
To  Jesus  the  City  of  Refuge  raise, 
Call  its  walls  Salvation,  its  bulwarks  Praise. 


DEATH-BED  OF  THE  PIOUS. 

There  is  a  smile  of  purer  ray, 

Than  fancy's  features  wear; 
A  flame  whose  wavy  pinions  play, 

With  glow  divinely  fair. 

There  is  a  holy  vestal  calm, 

That  breathes  of  bliss  and  heaven; 

A  solitude  of  lovelier  charm, 
Than  dews  the  wing*  of  even. 

There  is  a  bright  and  pleasing  hour, 

When  all  is  love  serene; 
When  angels  whisper  from  their  bower, 

And  joys  untold  are  seen. 
s2 


210  THE  POEMS  OF 

That  smile  on  Faith's  pale  brow  has  shone, 
That  calm  is  yielding  breath  ; 

That  hour  is  to  the  righteous  known 
Upon  the  bed  of  death. 


come  : 


When  God  his  wrathful  stores  called  out 

To  whelm  a  world  beneath  the  curse, 
'Mid  wild  uproar  and  thundering-  shout 

Of  waters,   Mercy  whispered  thus: 
"  Come  thou,   until  the  overflow 

Of  this,  mine  anger,  passeth  by:" 
Secure,   Noah  tarried,  till  the  bow, 

Beautiful  signet,   spanned  the  sky. 

And  when  again  the  cry  went  up 

From  earth,   accusing  to  the  throne ; 
And  guilty  man  had  filled  his  cup, 

And  Sodom  must  be  overthrown: 
"  Come  ye,  my  people!"  in  that  hour 

The  voice  of  kind  alarum  rung; 
And  Fleaven  delayed  the  burning  shower, 

And  round  its  own  its  mantle  flung. 

In  latter  time  Redemption's  plan, 

Conceived  ere  worlds  in  space  were  hung- 
Unfolded,   and  the  Son  of  Man 

Sojourned  a  ruined  race  among: 


WILLIAM  B.  TAPPAN.  211 

And  still  the  Incarnate  Teacher  cried, 

"  Come,  thirsty,  come!   and  thirst  ye  never:" 

And  till  in  pangs  he  bowed  and  died, 
He  bade  men  come  and  live  for  ever. 

Now  speaketh  out  Jehovah's  love, 

In  tones  to  chide,    entreat,   alarm, 
He  bids  the  wounded  Come,   and  prove 

How  kind  is  Gilead's  healing*  balm. 
Of  all  the  injured  law  reveals, 

Or  gospel  woes,   is  this  the  sum: 
Jesus  for  sin  a  pardon  seals, 

The  Spirit  and  the  Bride  say,  Come! 


THE  SOLDIERS  OF  THE  CROSS. 

The  soldiers  of  the  cross 

Led  by  the  anointed  Son, 
Know  not  of  shame  or  loss, 

Their  watchword  still  is  "  On" — 
Onward!   till  o'er  a  rebel  world 
Victorious  banners  are  unfurled. 

Whose  nag"  looks  o'er  the  field 

Idolatry  hath  trod  ? 
On  waving*  folds  revealed, 

Behold  the  Word  of  God: 
Barbaric  kingdoms  g*ather  round, 
Jehovah!   where  thy  name  is  found. 


212  THE  POEMS  OF 

Who  next? — a  lamb-like  throng, 

The  j  oyous  infant  train 
Approach  and  hail  with  song1 

Their  Shepherd's  peaceful  reign: 
And  he  shall  lead  with  gentle  rule 
His  chosen  of  the  Sunday  School. 

And  see!  a  noble  band, 

Whose  lifted  sheet  of  heaven 

Displays  from  land  to  land 
The  leaves  for  healing  given; 

Where'er  its  spangled  glories  burn 

The  nations  from  the  dead  return. 

One  army  of  the  Prince, 

One  note  their  trumpets  tell, 

And  theirs  the  battle,   since 
Their  leader  vanquished  hell. 

To  perish  is  to  win  renown, 

To  fall,  to  reach  a  sparkling  crown. 

To  arms!   't  were  glorious  boon 
With  these  stout  hearts  to  die  ; 

To  arms!   for  victory  soon 
Shall  be  the  stirring  cry: 

Yet  every  crown  and  palm  shall  meet, 

Where  victory  dwells,  at  Jesus'  feet. 


WILLIAM  B.  TAPPAN.         213 


APOSTROPHE  TO  THE  ERIG  TONTINE, 

BOUND  FOR  GREECE,    FROM  PHILADELPHIA,    WITH  PRO- 
VISIONS FOR  THE    SUFFERING  GREEKS: 

March  23,  1327. 

Sail  on!  and  cheer  men  that  have  waited 
In  sadness,   trodden  down,  yet  free; 

Sail  on!  for  barque  more  nobly  freighted 
Ploughed  never  the  dark-heaving"  sea. 

Smooth  be  the  storm-swept  deep  before  thee; 

And  may  that  God  whom  winds  obey, 
While  rainbow  skies  are  laughing-  o'er  thee, 

Speedily  bring  thee  on  thy  way. 

O,  as  thy  track  thou'rt  proudly  cleaving 

On  Mercy's  errand  o'er  the  main, 
Millions,  upon  the  shores  thou'rt  leaving, 

Prefer  the  prayer — 'tis  not  in  vain — 

For  Greece,  her  truly  Spartan  daughters, 
Blessings  on  these,  her  sons  and  sires; 

For  Stamboul,   guilty  seat  of  slaughters, 
Just  Retribution's  chastening  fires. 

Sail  on!  sail  on!  thou  bearest  burden 

Richer  than  priceless  diadem  ; 
And  thy  avails — aye,  they're  the  guerdon 

Of  meek  Compassion's  holiest  gem. 


214  THE  POEMS  OF 


TO  GEORGE  B.  ENGLISH,  ESQ. 

ON  HIS  RENOUNCING  THE  CHRISTIAN,  FOR  THE  MOHAM- 
MEDAN FAITH. 

Why,  in  error's  wilds  astray, 

Youth,  aspiring*,  art  thou  found? 
Why  forsake  the  former  way, 

Tempting-  thus  forbidden  ground? 
Wears  Mohammed's  glittering"  crown, 

Pageant,  stained  with  g'uiltless  blood — 
Truer  glories  than  have  shone, 

On  the  blessed  Son  of  God? 

Shines  the  robe  of  Moorish  mail 

Brighter  than  the  Christian's  gem? 
Lovelier  glows  the  crescent,  pale, 

Than  the  star  of  Bethlehem? 
Youth,  return!  the  Prophet's  shrine 

Burns  not  with  descended  flame; 
Youth!  the  incense  is  not  thine, 

Incense  of  a  Saviour's  name. 

In  the  contrite  heart  is  seen 

Treasures,  known  not  to  thy  heaven; 
Yea  the  tears  of  Magdalene 

Dim  the  charms  to  Houries  given. 
Songs  of  mirth  are  thine,  to  me 

Dearer  is  the  music,  holy, 
Such  as  from  Gethsemane 

Comes  in  tones  of  melancholy. 


WILLIAM  B.  TAPPAN.  215 

Blossoms  Sharon's  shady  bower, 

-Fairer  than  thy  sensual  seat; 
Loftier  rises  Salem's  tower, 

Than  Stamboul's  proud  minaret. 
Haste  thee  to  yon  bannered  steep 

Where  the  Iman  beckons  thee; 
Haste  thee! — I  will  go  and  weep 

At  the  foot  of  Calvary. 

1822. 


The  loss  of  the  breath  from  a  beloved  object,  long  suffering  in 
pain  and  certainly  to  die,  is  not  so  great  a  privation  as  the  last 
loss  of  her  beautiful  remains,  if  they  continue  so.  The  victory 
of  the  grave  is  sharper  than  the  sting  of  death.— Mo  ore''  s  Life  of 
Sheridan. 

O,  let  her  linger  yet  awhile 

With  me — that  lovely  clay, — 
Those  features  where  death  seems  to  smile — 

O,  let  her  longer  stay. 

Let  me  again  adorn  her  hair 

With  flowers  she  loved  so  well; 
Again  that  bosom  seek,  and  there 

My  every  grief  dispel. 

She'll  not  reprove,  though  love  detains 

Her  here  awhile,  for  she 
Was  dear,  yet  dearer  those  remains; 

O,  let  her  stay  with  me. 


216  THE  P0E3IS  OF 

I'll  sit  beside  her  and  I'll  deem 
I  do  but  watch  her  sleep; 

She  looks  so  heavenly  in  that  dream, 
I  cannot  choose  bat  weep. 

It  may  not  be — that  altered  brow 
Tells  of  corruption's  hour; 

It  may  not,  must  not  be,  and  now 
O  Death,  I  feel  thy  power. 

To  thee  my  wedded  love  I  gave, 

In  silent  sorrowing-; 
Yet  is  the  victory  of  the  grave, 

Severer  than  thv  sting*. 


OCCASIONED  BY  AX  IXCIDEXT  DURIXG  A  STORM. 

The  parent-bird  had  built  its  nest 

'Mid  poplar  boughs  secure, 
On  hig'h  where  ills  might  ne'er  infest, 

Nor  treacherous  foes  allure. 
'Twas  hers  with  never  wearied  toil, 

The  toil  that  mothers  love — 
To  gather  for  her  young,  the  spoil 

Of  field  and  flowery  grove. 

Ah,  happy  brood!  we  heard  their  notes 
With  every  rising  sun; 


WILLIAM  B.  TAPPAN.  217 

Joy  bade  them  swell  their  little  throats, 

When  day  its  course  had  run. 
O,  might  such  bliss  of  home  remain, 

A  lesson  for  the  proud, 
Who  daily  seek,  but  seek  in  vain, 

For  peace  amid  the  crowd  ! 

But  sorrow  came,  to  let  us  know 

The  bliss  that  mortals  prize, 
Can  never  thrive  unmixed  below, 

Its  home  is  in  the  skies. 
Is  even  innocence  like  yours, 

Sweet  birds!  a  prey  to  ill? 
Then,  what  to  guilt  repose  ensures, 

Or  whispers,    " peace,  be  still!" 

The  midnight  thunder  burst  afar, 

The  whirlwind  rode  on  high; 
The  tremblers  shrunk,  for  them  no  star 

Looked  out  upon  the  sky. 
Fierce  came  the  blast,  and  spire  and  tree 

Quivered  beneath  its  power; 
Mankind  were  safe,  alas,  for  ye 

Poor  birds!   'twas  misery's  hour. 

The  morning  came  and  nature  shone, 

Yet  heard  we  not  the  song, — 
O,  heart-subduing  was  the  moan 

That  mother  poured  along: 
The  tempest  passed  not  harmless  by, 

The  lightning  scathed  the  bough; 
Abroad  the  scattered  fragments  lie, 

Where  are  her  offspring  now! 


218  THE  POE3I3  OF 


THE  IXCARXATION. 

Jerusalem  awakes, 

Her  giant  shadows  flee ; 
Night's  sentinel  forsakes 

The  hills  of  Galilee: 
And  scattering*  tints  of  morn  have  met 
Above  the  brow  of  Olivet. 

In  ruins  slept  a  world 

Once  innocent  and  fair  ; 
His  banner  sin  unfurled,  > 

And  Death  trod  proudly  there. 
Darkness  held  empire  till  afar, 
Symbol  of  hope,  rose  Bethlehem's  Star. 

The  ang-el  choir  that  nig-ht 
Brought  tidings  down  to  man  ; 

On  floods  of  wavy  light, 
Celestial  music  ran: 

"  Glory  to  God!   Good  will  to  earth, 

Salvation  by  ImmanuePs  birth!" 

Light  broke  on  Syrian  plains 

To  cheer  a  world  in  wo; 
And  there  were  heard  the  strains 

That  none  but  ang-els  know: 
That  lig-ht  shall  shine  from  sun  to  sun, 
That  song"  throug-h  every  clime  shall  run. 


WILLIAM  B.  TAPPAN.  219 

The  chambers  of  the  tomb 

Yield  renovating-  breath  j 
He  snatched  from  these  their  gloom, 

And  victory  from  death: 
Now  spices  flow  along-  that  bed, 
Now  Resurrection  crowns  the  dead. 


EPITAPH, 

TAKEN    FROM  A  TOXB    IX   THE  CATHEDRAL  OF   SIEXXA. 

"  Wine  gives  life  I  it  was  death  to  me.  I-  never  beheld  the 
morning  sun  with  sober  eyes  ;  even  my  bones  art;  thirsty.— Stran- 
ger.'  sprinkle  my  grave  ■with  wine;  empty  the  cup  and  depart." 

thus  versified: 

Even  here  where  I  long-  vig-ils  keep, 

Do  thou  the  goblet  fill; 
In  generous  wine  these  relics  steep, 

My  bones  are  thirsty  still. 
Pour  out  oblations  on  my  grave ! 

Dost  start' — nay,   do  not  fear, 
For  of  that  cup,  the  maniac  slave 

Now  powerless  lies  here. 

Is  it  not  life  ?  Yet  unto  me 

The  blight  of  hope  it  was  ; 
My  years  were  given  to  misery ; 

I  curse  thee,   wine  !  the  cause: 
Brighter  than  morning  was  my  lot, 

But  serpents  wreathed  the  bowl ; 


220  THE  POEMS  OF 

Give  me  of  wine  !   death  quenches  not 
Thirst  that  consumes  the  soul. 

Cheerily  laughs  thy  sun^ — its  beams 

Thou  welcomest,  yet  I 
Never  beheld  these,   save  when  dreams 

Of  madness  floated  by. 
Aye,  where  in  peace  dust  should  recline, 

The  worm  g-naws  on  my  heart ; 
Sprinkle  the  feverish  turf  with  wine, 

Pour  out  the  cup — depart! 


THE  AMERICAN  BAXNER. 

O'er  the  thousand  hills  of  fame, 
O'er  unnumbered  hearts  of  flame, 
O'er  a  nation's  deathless  name, 

Peerless  banner!  wave st  thou. 
O'er  the  subject  sea  that  laves 
Shores  that  never  nourished  slaves, 
Soil  that  yielded  martyr-graves, 

Beam  the  stars  of  glory  now. 

Years  have  fled  since  bold  hearts  hig*h 
Reared  thee,  and  by  earth  and  sky 
Swore  that  free  they'd  live,   or  die 

'Neath  the  symbol  of  the  free: 
That  proud  oath,  where  storm-clouds  curled 


WILLIAM  B.  TAPPAN.  221 

They  redeemed,  and  thou  unfurled, 
Venerated  by  a  world, 
Wavest,   flag- of  liberty! 

Eyes  beheld  thee  on  that  field, 
Where  thou  gleamd'st  a  meteor  shield, 
That  are  dim  this  day,   or  sealed 

In  the  warrior's  stir  less  sleep. 
Banner  of  the  sainted  dead! 
Wave  in  triumph  o'er  his  bed, 
Whom  thy  folds  to  victory  led, 

Immortality  to  reap. 

Standard!   float  forever  thou 

From  our  proudest  mountain's  brow ; 

Shine,   a  heaven-lit  beacon  now, 

Cheering-  nations — cheering"  Greece! 
Spirit,  that  hast  thither  flown, 
Crush  the  Moslem  on  his  throne; 
Where  the  crescent  long  has  shone, 

Hover,  angel-dove  of  peace. 
1825. 


TO  WIXTER. 

Wtixter  !  there  are  among  the  race  of  men, 
Strangers  to  thought  who  slander  thee; 

Thy  frowns  appal,  thy  smiles  escape  their  ken, 
Far  lovelier  the  garb  thou  wear'st  to  me. 
t2 


222  THE  POEMS  OF 

I  love  thy  rocking  storms  to  hear; 

Thy  blasts,  that  bid  the  aged  mountains  nod, 
Thy  winds  are  music  to  mine  ear, 

To  me  their  murmuring  is  the  voice  of  God. 

Thou  of  the  kindly  charities! 

'Tis  thine  to  thaw  man's  heart — the  frigid  soul, 
Sterner  than  frost,  is  melted,  nor  denies 

Its  aid  to  bid  the  tempest-tost  be  whole. 

Yea  mother!  thou  art  not  austere; 

Though  frozen  be  thy  aspect,  bliss  is  thine 
Unknown  to  fairer  May.      Upon  thy  shrine 

Ever  is  seen  the  grateful  orphan's  tear. 

Parent  of  treasures,  thou! 

Should  I  not  love  thee5     O,  can  aught  compare 
With  thy  dear  fireside  joys5 — the  tranquil  brow, 

The  wife's  warm  smile  and  children's  kiss  are  there. 


FOURTH  OF  JULY. 

Win  thy  own  Israel,  God  of  love, 

Forth  from  Egyptian  bondage  came, 
Thou  didst  before  her  armies  move, 

In  thy  pavilion  car  of  flame. 
And  brightly  shone  thy  power  about, 

To  guide  and  guard  the  chosen  band, 
'Till  thou  hadst  safely  brought  them  out 

From  peril,  to  the  promised  land. 


WILLIAM  B.  TAPPAX.  223 

So  wast  thou,  Lord!   our  fathers'  shield, 

When  they  were  feeble  and  alone; 
Thou,  from  thy  war-cloud,  on  that  field 

Look'dst,  and  the  vaunting-  foe  was  gone. 
So  didst  thou  guide  them,  when  no  more 

Flashed  banners  out  and  glittering  swords; 
And  thou  hast  blest  the  sea  and  shore, 

"Whose  toil  and  battle  were  the  Lord's. . 

We  worship  where  those  warriors  stood, 

When  drum  and  trumpet  sounded  long; 
And  on  the  soil  that  drank  their  blood 

In  peace  we  pour  the  festive  song. 
That  soil! — it  nourished  Freedom's  tree, 

The  plant  that  freshly  bourgeons  now; 
O  God,  may  unborn  nations  see 

Our  sons  rejoice  beneath  its  bough. 

We  worship — but  where  are  the  Brave 

That  warred  and  watched  in  manhood's  bloom  ■ 
Their  locks  are  hoar,  and  some  do  wave 

Amid  the  breezes  of  the  tomb. 
Yet  thou,  with  more  than  angel's  wing 

Wilt  overshadow  Freedom's  coasts; 
As  did  their  sires,  the  children  bring 

Homage  to  thee,  Lord  God  of  Hosts! 


224 


THE  POEMS  OF 


TO  LAFAYETTE. 


ON    HIS    EXPECTED    VISIT    TO    THE    UNITED    STATES- 
WRITTEN  IB  31  AT,    1824. 

Thou  wilt  seek,  aged  warrior!   once  more 

The  soil  of  the  grateful  and  free; 
With  thy  presence  wilt  gladden  the  shore 

Whose  millions  will  recognize  thee, 
The  ally  that  came  from  afar, 

When  arose  the  Revengeful  and  Proud: 
When  the  storm-burst  was  heard,  and  the  star 

Of  freedom  looked  out  from  a  cloud. 

Thou  wilt  come  and  exulting  survey, 

Where  that  beautiful  gem  of  the  night, 
With  splendour  that  mocks  at  the  day, 

Beams  out  on  the  field  of  the  fight. 
Thou  wilt  come  in  the  autumn  of  years, 

To  reap  what  thy  spring-time  had  sown; 
To  the  grave,  hoary  man!  thy  compeers 

Have  descended,  and  thou  art  alone. 

Thou  wilt  meet  those  whose  glory  and  pride, 

Whose  feeling  bid  scorn  to  forget 
The  Man  whom  adversity  tried, 

The  friend  of  his  species,  Fayette/ 
In  their  sons  live  the  fathers  again, 

And  each  bosom  will  throb  to  its  core, 
When  thou  treadest  the  hills  of  the  slain,   . 

And  the  vales  fertilized  with  their  gore. 


WILLIAM  B.  TAPPAX.  225 

We  remember — what  freeman  will  not! — _ 

The  Man  of  the  People,  whose  name 
Time's  'scutcheon  reveals  without  blot, 

Ye  ages!   eternize  his  fame. 
Be  it  joined  vet  with  Iris  who  shrunk  never 

From  the  toil  of  humanity's  friend; 
Their  bosoms  were  one — and  forever 

With  Washixgtox,  Fayette  should  blend. 

The  land  of  the  sceptre  and  slave, 

Thy  birth-place — is  alien  to  thee; 
Yes,  Europe,  accursed,  is  the  grave 

Of  all  that  is  generous  and  free. 
Haste  then  gallant  one !   and  repose 

'Neath  the  peace-branch  thou  helpedst  to  rear; 
Not  a  heart  but  whose  warmest  pulse  glows, 

Lafavette!  to  welcome  thee  here. 


OCCASIONED  BY  THE  EXPECTED  PltESEXCE  OP  LAFAY- 
ETTE IX  THE  UNITED  STATES,  AT  THE  F0E.TY-XIXTH 
CELEBItATIOX  OP  THEIR  IXDEPEXDEXCE. 

He  has  stood  in  his  years,  on  the  bed  of  the  slain, 
The  fields  where  his  comrades  perished; 

And  memory,  the  tie  has  renewed  again 
With  those  his  heart  had  cherished. 


226  THE  POEMS  OF 

On  the  heights  where  the  champions  of  freedom  fell; 

At  the  hour  of  a  nation's  glory, 
He  has  bidden  the  column  rise,  and  tell 

To  ages,  its  deathless  story. 

In  the  tent  he  has  rested,  that  sheltered  the  chief, 

In  the  day  of  doubt  and  danger; 
His  tomb  he  has  wet  with  the  tears  of  grief, 

They  were  not  the  tears  of  a  stranger. 

He  departs! — we  could  wish  here  his  autumn  of  bliss 
Might  ripen — kind  winter  before  him — 

In  vain,  for  the  waters  that  gave  him  to  this 
Loved  clime,  to  his  own  will  restore  him. 

Yet,  ere  millions  who  fondly  love  that  Name, 

Ingratitude  ever  spurning — 
"With  mingled  emotions  shall  faulter  acclaim 

To  their  Guest,  o'er  the  billows  returning': 

Ere  the  Great  and  the  Good  from  his  dear  native 
land 

Receives  the  Patriot's  greeting ; 
Ere  he  clasps  to  his  own,  on  that  idolized  strand, 

The  bosom,  where  love  is  beating: 

"With  the  sons  of  the  tried  who  in  peril  were  true, 

He  will  hallow  the  Day  of  Oblation  ; 
Ye  manes!  hover  near  us,  and  gratefully  view 

The  smiles  and  the  tears  of  a  nation. 

He  will  witness  the  rapturous  homage  of  love, 
That  man  is  sublimely  bestowing 


WILLIAM  B.  TAPPAN.  227 

On  him,  whose  achievements  are  written  above, 
"Whose  worth  in  the  heart  is  glowing*. 

At  that  board  he  will  honour  the  time-stricken  head 
Once  known  'mid  the  cannon's  rattle; 

At  that  feast  he  will  pledge  the  Valiant — the  Dead — 
Who  rest  in  the  shroud  of  battle. 

Then  go,  Friend  of  Man!  at  the  shrine  of  whose 
name 

Our  holiest  love  is  burning- ; 
The  nation  that  welcomed,   will  render  acclaim 

To  its  Guest,  o'er  the  billows  returning. 


LAFAYETTE  AT  THE  TOMB  OF  WASHINGTON. 

My  Father!  my  Father!  when  hosts  were  embattled, 

The  cordons  beheld  me,  thy  son,  at  thy  side; 
Where  freedom's  flag  hovered,  her  thunder-drums 
rattled, 
I  fought  to  defend  her — to  avenge  would  have 
died. 

A  stranger  I  came,  yet  thou  didst  not  reject  me, 
In  thy  councils,   thy  thoughts,   didst  invite  me  to 
share, 
Thou  didst  honour  and  love  me,   my  Father!  and 
bless  me, 
That  love  thrilled  my  heart's  core — it  still  lingers 
there. 


228  THE  POEMS  OF 

I  return  to  the  fields  of  the  patriot's  glory, 

Those  fields  wave  their  harvests  like   Eden  in 
bloom; 

But  the  deeds  of  the  warrior  live  only  in  story, 
And  thou,  too,  my  Father!  hast  gone  to  the  tomb. 

My  Father!  my  Father!  one  war-tent  did  shield  us, 
Companion  in  perils  thy  joys  too  were  mine; 

In  death  not  divided,  one  grave  shall  receive  us, 
I  hasten  to  mingle  my  ashes  with  thine. 


THE  SLAVE  SHIP. 

The  tall  ship  bounds  across  the  wave, 

Her  canvass  gaily  spread; 
She  hastens  past  the  billowy  grave, 

And  over  ocean's  dead. 
Now  tempests  revel  round  her  mast, 

And  now  the  gale  is  gone; 
Unheeding  tempests,  proud  and  fast, 

The  tall  ship  hurries  on. 

Now  lessening  to  the  weary  eye, 

The  flying  vessel  seems 
A  pigmy  thing  of  vanity, 

That  mocks  men  in  their  dreams. 
Dimly  she  climbs  along  the  steep, 

A  bubble  of  the  breeze; 
Then  flashes  o'er  the  yielding  deep, 

The  meteor  of  the  seas. 


WILLIAM  B.    TAPPAN.  229 

And  whence  that  speed?  Her  flag  on  high 

Waves  it  for  glory  now  ? 
Where  undiscovered  worlds  may  he 

Points  she  her  daring  prow? 
Nobly  to  cheer  the  patriot's  toil, 

Bears  she  high  hearts  afar? 
Or  to  the  'nighted  pagan's  soil, 

The  light  of  Bethlehem's  Star? 

Onward  she  flies.    Thou  saw'st  that  deck — 

The  warrior  treads  not  there; 
In  gallant  trim  she  sails,  the  wreck 

Of  bosoms  in  despair! 
And  who  may  tell  what  bolt  of  God 

Against  her  forth  is  gone  ? 
Aye,  while  his  anger  is  abroad 

The  Slave  Ship  hurries  on. 


THE  INCENDIARY. 

His  brow  is  stern  and  his  cheek  is  cold, 
In  his  scowl  is  fierce  despair; 

His  visage  is  sunk  his  eye  is  bold, 
The  deed  of  darkness  is  there. 

For  him  affection  nurtures  no  charm, 
No  tear  has  the  ruffian  shed; 

Kind  mercy  to  him  can  whisper  no  balm, 
His  bosom  is  seared  and  dead. 


230  THE  POEMS  OF 

For  him  no  dream  of  innocence  rose, 
No  rapture  can  memory  impart; 

The  genial  tide  of  compassion  is  froze, 
Revenge  has  withered  his  heart. 

The  bliss  of  a  home  he  ne'er  can  feel, 
Its  sweets  his  curses  would  blight; 

He  grasps  the  brand  and  the  thirsty  steel, 
Desolation  and  death  his  delight. 

In  the  cavern  of  crime  his  haunt  is  known, 
There  the  furies  of  blasphemy  dwell: 

At  midnight  the  torch  of  destruction  is  blown, 
And  he  writhes  with  the  laugh  of  hell. 


WHAT  IS  ETERNITY  I 

Go  thou  and  mark  the  holy  preacher's  tones, 
And  fix  thy  gaze  intently,   as  he  lifts 
The  separating  veil,   and  to  thy  sight 
Unfolds  the  secrets  of  Eternity: — 
The  bliss  that  knows  no  pausing — pains  that  roll 
In  whelming  billows,   ever,   ever  on. 
Thouhear'st,  thouseest,  appalled;  yet  knowest  not 
To  answer  me,  what  is  Eternity. 

Go,  bend  thee  o'er  the  impenitent  sick  one; 
Mark  well — 'tis  mortal  sickness — the  deep  pangs 
Expressed  by  nature's  eloquence.     The  groans 


WILLIAM  B.  TAPPAX.  231 

The  tossings,  writhings,  the  unutterable 
Commotions  of  a  body  racked;  a  soul 
Already  steeped  in  hell ;  and  as  thou  hear'st 
The  super-human  cry  break  fearful  forth, 
"  Oh  what  is  this  Eternity?"  despair, 
Despair,   Oh  man,  to  answer — thou  know'st  not. 

Go  to  the  grave -yard — seek  out  yonder  tomb — 
Descend,   fear  not — thou  seest  that  mouldering*  lid; 
Now  handle  the  dark  corse — the  clammy  bones 
Tell  of  corruption,  tell  of  the  foul  worm 
That  long-  hath  here  held  banqueting*. 
Hark !  from  this  coffin,  broken  into  dust, 
These  bones,  these  damps,   this  melancholy  gloom, 
A  voice  disturbs  the  chambers  of  the  tomb: 
Canst  thou  reply?     Oh  no — thou  know'st  not  yet, 
Nor  learnest  here,  what  is  Eternity. 

Go  to!  and  let  God  teach  thee — let  the  grasp 
Of  sickness,  bring"  thee  down  unto  the  gates 
Of  death,  and  as  thou  shuddering*  seest  in  light 
Unknown  before,  the  past,  the  present,  and 
The  solemn  future — though  thy  hopes  on  Him, 
The  Everlasting  Rock,  be  built:  though  thou 
Art  safe  through  riches  of  His  blood,  and  thou 
Canst  say,  exulting,    "  Death!   where  is  thy  sting?" 
Yet,  Man,  a  veil  is  lifted  up  to  thee; 
Revealing  things,  undreamed,  unfelt,  nor  told 
In  the  wide  range  of  providence  to  men. 
And  now  thou  canst  reply,    "  Eternity — 
Oh  more  than  tongue  can  tell,  or  thought  devise ; 
More  than  imagining  can  fathom — God ! 
Eternal  God!   'tis  thy  duration  all." 


232  THE  POEMS  OF 


THE  BETHEL  FLAG. 

O  bring  the  peaceful  banner  nigh 
Whose  blazon  tells  of  holy  love; 

And  spread  the  standard  to  the  sky 
Whose  wavy  folds  reveal  the  dove. 

'Tis  done,  and  on  the  soft  winds  now 
I  see  its  streaming"  curls  recline, 

And  deem  it  as  a  second  bow 

Of  promise,  and  the  blessing"  mine. 

Flag1  of  the  pure  and  azure  heaven! 

How  lovely  is  thy  bearing"  here — 
Free  as  the  breezes  round  thee  driven, 

Is  thy  sweet  errand  on  the  ear. 

Thou  markest  not  the  hurrying  keel, 
Whose  foamy  path  leads  on  to  gold  ; 

Thy  nobler  freighted  barques  conceal 
Gems,  Tyre  and  Tarshish  never  told. 

Thou  leadest  not  the  armed  host: 
Thou  art  not  in  the  battle's  hum; 

No  trump  sings  of  thee,  round  thee  roll 
No  thunders  of  the  stirring  drum. 

But  unto  thee  are  gathered  men, 
Whose  only  panoply  is  prayer; 

And  where  thou  wavest,  lofty  hymns 
Discourse  along  the  listening  air. 


WILLIAM   B.  TAPPAX.  233 

Thou  giv'st  to  patriot  g-aze  no  star 

Nor  stripes,   a  glorious  augury; 
Yet  token  of  victorious  war 

Thy  beaming-  symbols  seem  to  be. 

For  they  type  One,   whose  tempered  shield 
Shook  off  the  hurtling*  darts  of  sin; 

When  he  trod  once  no  doubtful  field, 
Imperishable  crowns  to  win. 

They  tell  unto  the  ocean  tost, 

That  He  who  spans  its  floods  can  save: 

And  that  for  him,  the  well  nig-h  lost, 
The  Ark  yet  ling-ers  on  the  wave. 

They  herald  joy  to  the  opprest, 
And  ransom  to  the  sons  of  thrall : 

And  shadow  forth  to  labour  rest 
In  music  of  Salvation's  call. 

With  voice  of  psalms  then  to  the  skies 

Unfurl  the  flag",  a  type  of  love; 
The  answering*  anthem's  shout  shall  rise 

When  they  reveal  the  Holy  Dove. 


234  THE  POEMS  OF 


THE  CASTAWAY. 

"  The  impression  has  vary  generally  obtained  that  the  reforma- 
tion of  drunkards  is  a  hopeless  undertaking.  Facts  teach  us  to 
renew  our  efforts  to  pluck  them  from  the  fire,  though  half  con 
suraed.  They  may  yet  be  recovered  and  become  useful  members 
of  society." 

THou'st  snatched  the  youth  from  ruin's  grave, 

And  dashed  to  earth  his  chain  ; 
And  bade  him  sit,  no  more  a  slave, 

A  man,  with  men  again. 

Thou'st  rescued  from  the  sorcerer,  when 

Hope  failed  to  chase  the  spell; 
Thou'st  broken  caste,  that  sundered  men 

Wide  as  the  doors  of  hell. 

To  crush  the  cup,  concealed  in  flowers, 

Its  garlands  to  untwine, 
Is  godlike  toil — the  fruit  is  ours, 

The  triumph,  Temperance,  thine. 

Nor  mean  that  victory — with  its  song 

Is  stirred  the  warriors'  graves: 
And  cries  ring  thence,  in  trumpet-tongue, 

"  Our  sons  no  more  are  slaves!" 

Magician  of  unequalled  power! 

Who  but  thyself  could  dare 
To  seek  the  Hon  in  his  hour, 

And  beard  him  in  his  lair5 


WILLIAM  B.  TAPPAN.  235 

'Tis  well — 'tis  more — 'tis  nobly  done  ; 

Thy  recompense,  by  far 
I'd  choose,  than  j  e welled  sceptre  won 

By  emperor  or  czar. 

Yet,  angel,  or  whate'er  thou  art, 

Thy  gaze  turn  thou  on  him, 
For  whom  this  world  hath  little  part, 

Whose  hope  beyond,  is  dim. 

For  fell  remorse  is  his,   and  fast 

The  serpent  hath  him  bound; 
With  gripe  of  death,  its  folds  are  cast 

His  inmost  soul  around. 

He  bathed  his  boyhood  in  the  cup, 

In  poison  quenched  his  prime; 
Its  fires  have  drunk  existence  up, 

And  now  he  "bides  his  time." 

There  are  fond  ones  to  share  his  wo, 

He  will  not  sink  alone; 
His  spirit's  lease  is  linked  unto 

Jehovah's  moveless  throne. 

And  him — eternity's  proud  heir — 

Shouldst  thou,  for  aye,  pass  by, 
And  leave  in  all  his  still  despair 

A  castaway,  to  die  ? 

O  strive  till  longer  that  dark  way 

He  will  not,  cannot  tread ; 
But  walks  forth  into  cheerful  day, 

The  living  from  the  dead. 


236  THE  POEMS  OF 


MRS.  A- 

We  saw  thee  in  thy  gladness, 

When  peace  sat  on  thy  brow 5 
The  solacer  of  sadness, 

The  faithful  friend  wast  thou. 
To  thee,  in  bounteous  measure, 

The  thing-s  below,  to  love, 
Were  given,  and  yet  thy  treasure 

Was  fondly  laid  above. 

We  sawT  thee  test  the  power 

Of  confidence  divine; 
To  charm  life's  chequered  hour 

With  gentleness,  was  thine. 
And  still,  'twas  thy  endeavour 

To  take  the  lowly  seat, 
And  sit  with  Mary,  ever 

At  thy  Redeemer's  feet. 

We  stood  where  thou  wert  lying 

In  suffering,  and  so  deep 
That  holy  calm,  that  dying 

Was  seemingly  to  sleep, 
To  sleep?  Oh  no!  the  portal 

Thus  gently  rent  away — 
Thou  unto  life  immortal 

Woke st  then  in  perfect  day. 

We  knew  that  while  were  glooming 
O'er  thee,  the  shades  of  night, 


WILLIAM  B.  TAPPAX.  237 

Thou  saw'st  in  vision  blooming-; 

The  fields  of  living1  light. 
We  deemed — so  sweetly  given 

Was  thine  to  cheer  the  heart, 
1  Farewell/  ice  meet  in  heaven9 — 

'Twas  little  pain  to  part. 

The  gTave  hath  closed  around  thee, 

And  hidden  what  was  fair; 
But  yesterday,  upon  thee 

We  wept,  and  left  thee  there. 
Left!  No !  the  grave  holds  never 

What  we  have  loved  in  thee, 
The  spirit  that  forever 

Searcheth  eternity. 

Farewell!   farewell!  in  glory, 

— With  thee  for  aye  begun — 
If  thought  of  earth's  brief  story 

Yet  lingers,  blessed  one — 
Is't  not  the  sometime  glancing", 

The  watch  at  gates  of  gold, 
That  these  in  bliss  entrancing, 

Thy  loved,  thou  may'st  behold? 


THE  BLIND. 


Pity  the  Blind!— what  is  his  lot 

Whose  all  of  life's  a  wasting  dream — 

To  whom  the  pleasant  earth's  a  blot, 
To  whom  the  skies  a  mockery  seem. 


238  THE  POEMS  OF 

Whose  eye  in  gladness  never  met 

In  infancy,  a  mother's  eye ; 
Nor  mother's  smile  that  none  forget — 

Nor  mother's  tear,  when  ills  were  nigh. 

Pity  the  Blind! — who,  not  without 

Some  vision  of  a  world  of  bliss, 
Is  in  his  secret  grief  shut  out 

From  all  the  kindly  j  oys  of  this. 
Who  ne'er  above,  may  trace  the  hand 

That  curtained  out  that  starry  hall, 
Nor  mark  below,  on  sea  and  land, 

The  skill  that  formed  and  fosters  all. 

Joy  for  the  Blind!  for  unto  him 

Has  knowledge  her  pure  ray  revealed; 
And  intellect,  that  long  lay  dim, 

To  life  and  light  is  now  unsealed. 
And  cheerfully  his  gladdened  eye 

Looks  o'er  the  broad  expanse  afar; 
The  uncertain  hope  that  vexed  his  sky 

Has  trembled  out  a  lovely  star. 

Joy  for  the  Blind! — the  favoured  Blind! 

Who  revels  in  discovered  store, 
And  gazes  with  the  eyes  of  mind 

On  beauty  dimly  known  before. 
O  Thou,  that  once  did'st  chase  the  night 

From  the  blind  men  that  cried  to  thee, 
Here  art  thou  loftier  in  thy  might, 

For  mind  and  soul  are  bid  to  see. 


WILLIAM  B.  TAPPAN.  239 


THE  CHILDREN  S  CHURCH. 

I've  worshipped  where  the  mighty  kneel 
Before  the  Mightiest  in  prayer; 

And  with  the  noble  organ's  peal 
My  mingling  hymn  has  risen  there. 

I've  met  where  "two  or  three"  have  met 
Before  the  throne  in  tears  to  he; 

Nor  would  my  soul  that  hour  forget, 
AVhen  in  communion  God  passed  by. 

Yet  higher  privilege  for  me, 

I  covet  not  to  be  revealed, 
Than  a  glad  worshipper  to  be 

AVhere  children  have  in  beauty  kneeled. 

To  mingle  mine  with  their  pure  prayers 
"When  they  like  infant  cherubs  bend: 

To  join  my  voice  and  heart  with  theirs 
In  anthems  to  our  heavenly  friend. 

That  melody !   it  knows  not  art, 

That  simple  prayer !  I  feel  'tis  true ; 

In  Jesus,  children  have  a  part, 

'Tis  theirs  to  love  and  worship  too. 

And  there,  before  the  eternal  throne, 
Censers  to  such  dear  ones  are  given; 

Their  lisping  harps  of  silver  tone 

Ring  sweetest  'mid  the  choirs  of  heaven. 


^40  THE  POEMS  OF 

O,  brighter  shone  the  Godhead  out, 
When  taking"  children  to  his  arms, 

Than  when  confessed  by  Jewish  shout, 
By  regal  pomp  and  waving  palms. 

Yea,  loftier  than  a  conqueror,  came 
The  Saviour  to  his  suffering, 

When  they  of  Bethphage  sang  acclaim, 
And  gave  hosannas  to  their  King. 


CHAPEL  IN  LIBERIA. 

While  a  collection  was  making  for  the  purpose  of  erecting  a 
Chapel  in  Liberia,  which  was  also  to  serve  for  a   school  house, 

little  S an  orphan  girl,  who  had  listened  to  the  account  of 

that  colony,  with  the  deepest  interest,  came  forward,  and  eagerly 
tendered  her  little  box  of  savings,  saying  "  take  it  a//." 

Nat,  take  my  gift,  and  spurn  it  not, 

My  heart  obeys  that  call; 
Others  may  bring  their  gold,  yet  more 

I  offer — 'tis  my  all. 

My  all — for  sorrow  gave  to  me 

Early,  its  bitter  cup; 
My  God !  I  am  an  orphan  child, 

But  thou  wilt  take  me  up. 

O,  I  do  deem  them  brothers  now, 
Who  have  of  misery  known; 


WILLIAM  B.  TAPPAN.  241 

And  love  as  sisters,  those  that  weep 
And  feel  like  me,  alone. 

Alone,  alone,  the  motherless, 

Whom  each  one  seems  to  shun: 
Cast  out  upon  the  cold  wide  world, 

A  solitary  one. 

Yet  more  I  pity  those  that  have 

Mothers  they  ne'er  may  see; 
My  mother  went,  but  then  I  know 

She  is  where  angels  be. 

And  while  I  call  upon  her  name, 

And  weep  where  she  doth  lie, 
Her  lofty  spirit-hymns  are  heard 

Above  the  star-lit  sky. 

Then  take  my  gift  and  haste  to  build 

To  God  a  house  of  prayer, 
For  those  whom  cruel  hands  have  made 

The  orphans  of  despair. 


GOD,  OUR  GOD,  HIS  POWER  REVEALING. 

God,  our  God,  his  power  revealing 

In  this  latter  harvest  time, 
Bids  his  sun,  with  wings  of  healing, 

Rise  on  each  benighted  clime: 


242  THE  POEMS  OF 

See!  o'er  vale  and  humbled  mountain, 
Rolls  his  conquering"  car  to  day; 

See!  his  brightness,  like  a  fountain, 
Flooding  all  the  glad  highway. 

By  the  mission  ships  that  wander, 

Messengers  to  every  sea, — 
By  his  servants  toiling  yonder, 

Where  stern  idols  claim  the  knee, — 
Bibles,  news  of  peace  declaring 

To  the  wretch  by  sin  undone, 
Tracts,  obedient  missives,  bearing 

Liberty  to  thraldom's  son: 

By  the  tender  mercies,  glowing 

Where  reigned  hatred  and  misrule : 
And  the  thousand  blessings,  flowing 

From  his  chosen  Sunday  School — 
He  is  error's  night  dispelling, 

Bidding  grace  in  rivers  flow, 
From  Antarctic,  to  the  dwelling 

Of  the  lowly  Esquimaux. 

Wake  the  harp,  ye  angels!  ever 

Warble,  ye  melodious  choirs! 
Sweet  your  minstrelsy,  yet  never 

With  Redemption,  thrill  those  wires. 
'Tis  our  song,  and  all  your  glory 

Starry  crowns  and  hymns  above 
Fade,  while  children  lisp  the  story 

Of  a  Saviour's  dying  love. 


WILLIAM  B.  TAFPAN*  %243 


TO  CERTAIN  DUELLISTS. 


Go  ye  that  fain  would  sit  on  high 

In  Legislation's  halls; 
That  proudly  boast,  yet  quail  to  die, 

Save  when  false  Honour  calls — 
Go — and  with  witless  mockery 

Scoff  at  your  fellow,  then 
Let  blood  wash  out  the  insult,  ye 

Are  honourable  men. 

Go,  smite  the  stripling  in  his  bloom, 

'Tis  Honour  prompts  the  deed: 
Send  down  gray  hairs  unto  the  tomb, 

Bid  woman's  bosom  bleed, 
Go,  speed  your  brother  to  the  goal, 

Where  shines  not  Mercy's  Star; 
And  with  hot  blood  upon  the  soul, 

Rush  ye  unto  that  bar. 

Go,  bravely  rend  the  holiest  ties; 

Shrink  not! — shall  Honour  fear? 
Go,  laugh  to  scorn  the  orphan's  cries, 

Jest  at  the  widow's  tear: 
What  boots  it  that  her  secret  curse 

Is  "written  on  your  brow? 
The  world  sees  not,  nor  deems  ye  worse, 

Though  blood  be  on  ye  now. 

O,  no — Derision's  withering  blot 
Will  never  dim  your  fame ; 


244  THE  POEMS  OF 

He  is  the  recreant  who  dares  not 

With  murder  gild  his  name ; 
Yet  smile,  vain  world! — when  whets  God's  sword, 

With  him  it  shall  be  well; 
That  smile — the  Duellist's  reward — 

Is  but  the  laugh  of  hell. 


OCCASIONED  BY  READING  GORDON   HALL  S  LAST 
APPEAL  FOR  THE  HEATHEN. 

A  voice — a  voice — from  the  land  of  death, 
Uncheeredby  the  day-beam,  revived  by  no  breath; 
A  voice — a  voice — it  breaks  from  that  gloom, 
Appealing  to  men  ere  'tis  hushed  in  the  tomb. 

A  voice! — it  comes  on  the  pestilent  gale 
From  Juggernaut's  slain, — with  the  Suttee's  wail, 
With  the  mother's  shriek,  with  the  innocent  sigh 
Of  babes,  in  their  martyrdom,  mingles  that  cry. 

A  voice  to  the  Church! — from  your  slumbers  wake 
The  maddening  spell  of  cruelty  break; 
The  mighty  have  risen  with  buckler  and  sword, 
Speedily  send  to  the  help  of  the  Lord. 

A  voice  to  the  Young  Men! — hear  ye  that  call? 
Do  ye  gird  for  the  battle  and  fear  ye  to  fall? 
By  that  path  to  their  crowns  your  brothers  trod, 
March  ye  where  beckon  the  banners  of  God. 


WILLIAM  B.  TAPPAN.  245 

A  voice  to  the  Old  Men! — speed  ye  the  prayer, 
That  these  on  the  deep  may  benisons  share; 
O,  bravely  the  mission  ship  walks  the  wave, 
When  the  Stiller  of  Waters  is  nigh  to  save. 

A  voice  to  the  living!  it  comes  from  the  dead; 

By  the  prayers  they  have  uttered,  the  tears  they 

have  shed, 
By  their  nights  of  sighs  and  days  of  toil, 
To  win  of  the  heathen  for  Jesus  a  spoil, — 

By  the  stillness  that  lingers  round  their  graves 
Where  the  beautiful  palm  in  verdure  waves; 
By  the  tear  to  their  ashes  the  Convert  hath  given, 
By  the  soul  of  that  saved  one — a  gem  of  heaven — 

It  calls  ye,  invites — demands  ye,  and  know 

'Tis  peril  to  linger — O,  fear  not  to  go 

Where  dangers  wait,  where  deliverance  is  nigh, 

To  death — to  your  songs  and  your  harps  in  the  sky. 


SUNDAY  SCHOOL  JUBILEE. 

We  praise  thee,  Lord,  for  light  that  shone 
On  England  first,  revealed  from  thee, 

And  now  hath  noon-tide  splendours  thrown 
Around  our  festive  jubilee. 

x2 


246  THE  POEMS  OF 

In  gladness  and  in  peace  it  came 

To  win  the  troubled  wanderer  nigh ; 

Its  symbol  was  a  Saviour's  name, 

Its  token  toil,  its  watchword  "  Try!" 

Its  eagle  track  is  high  in  air; 

Its  standard  sheet  is  wide  unfurled, 
Whose  waving  folds  of  victory  bear 

Release  and  ransom  to  a  world. 

Joy  for  its  blessings  to  the  child 
That  ages  saw  flung  back  on  sin; 

Now  gathered  from  destruction's  wild, 
And  brought  the  Shepherd's  fold  within. 

Joy  for  its  Christian-soldier  bands 

Whose  high  emprize  hath  millions  blest; 

Whose  march  is  o'er  the  Eastern  lands, 
Whose  conquests  reach  the  distant  West. 

O,  as  this  hour,  the  world's  deep  gaze, 
Withdrawn  from  its  own  dark  misrule, 

Is  fixed  in  wonder  on  the  rays 

That  cluster  round  the  Sunday  School; 

In  that  pure  brightness  bid  it  see 

The  day-dawn  blushing  o'er  the  skies, 

In  whose  meridian  every  knee 

Shall  bend,  while  earth's  hosannas  rise. 


WILLIAM  B.  TAPPAN.  247 

SUPPLICATION   IN   PROSPECT    OF  THE  CHOLERA  * 
WRITTEN  ON  HEARING  IT  HAD  ENTERED  CANADA. 

O  God  !  thine  oriental  scourge 

Its  errand  bade  to  run, 
Has  measured  realms  and  seas  to  hail 

Climes  of  the  setting  sun. 

Above  his  chariot  is  seen 

The  victor's  flag  unfurled; 
And  Ruin  ready  at  his  wheel 

To  sweep  the  western  world. 

And  on  our  troubled  border,  now 

The  mighty  Terror  stands; 
And  scares  us  with  his  dreadful  spoils 

Won  from  a  thousand  lands. 

A  moment  stands — his  steady  march 

Is  onward,  rousing  fears; 
Before  him  is  a  paradise, 

Behind  him  only  tears. 

Our  land,  is  it  not  valour's  land, 

The  beautiful  and  free? 
Yet,  if  the  chosen  of  the  earth, 

We  owe  it,  Lord,  to  thee. 

And  vainly  fling  we  round  its  hem 
The  sanitary  line; 


248  THE  POEMS  OF 

And  crowd  its  walls  with  watch  and  guard, 
To  keep  is  only  thine. 

O  rashly  have  we  deemed  our  spear 
Our  stay,  nor  sought  the  throne ; 

"We've  plucked  the  honour  from  thy  brow, 
To  bind  it  on  our  own. 

Now  wisely  taught  our  helplessness, 

Thy  justice  and  thy  power, 
Bid  thou  this  time  of  waiting  be 

Mercy's  propitious  hour. 

Then  come,  not  by  thy  messenger — 

Thyself  thy  children  meet 5 
And  see  a  people  humbled  low, 

A  nation  at  thy  feet. 


i 


PRAISE  FOR  DELIVERANCE  FROM  PESTILENCE. 

To  God,  who  gave  thee  joys  for  tears, 

And  when  it  brooded  o'er  thee  so, 
Rebuked  the  cloud  that  burst  in  fears, 

And  on  it  bent  his  beauteous  bow — 
Go,  Man!  that  didst  to  judgment  feel 

Strange  nearness,  then,  and  trembled  there ; 
Go,  and  before  thy  Maker  kneel 

In  deepest  penitence  and  prayer. 


WILLIAM  B.  TAPPAN.  249 

And  Woman/  o'er  whose  heart  has  swept 

The  angel's  wing — whose  trusted  stay 
Of  hope  is  fallen,  and  who'st  wept 

O'er  joys  forever  past  away — 
O  spared  that  thou  should'st  perish  not, 

In  lowliness  approach  the  Power, 
So  oft  invoked,  so  soon  forgot — 

That  shielded  thee  in  peril's  hour. 

Child/  to  thy  mother's  joy  restored, 

In  fairest  beauty  blossoming; 
Yield,  now,  in  offering  to  the  Lord, 

The  budding  freshness  of  thy  spring. 
For  he  preserved  thee  yet  below, 

And  shed  upon  thee  dews  of  love, 
That  tall,  and  strongly,  thou  mayst  grow, 

A  lovely  plant  for  bowers  above. 

And  ye!  whose  dwellings,  hedged  about, 

The  stern  destroyer  passed  by, 
Who,  when  sad  voices  wailed  without, 

Within,  heard  not  the  midnight  cry — 
Go,  with  your  songs,  to  him  that  threw 

Salvation  round  your  borders  then, 
And  in  that  night  of  horror  drew 

His  curtain  o'er  ye — troubled  men! 

Hark,  from  those  beds  of  pain,  a  voice — 
Hark  to  the  whisper  from  those  graves  : 

"  Rejoice  with  fear,  and  yet  rejoice, 
In  Him  that  slays,  in  him  that  saves!" 


250  THE  POEMS  OF 

To  God,  that  gave  us  joy  for  tears, 
To  whom  our  ransomed  lives  belong, 

To  God,  that  chased  away  our  fears, 

We  come  with  prayer  and  sound  of  song*. 


PEACE. 


I  ask  no  voice  of  trumpet  tone, 
To  tell  of  nations  overthrown, 
Of  armies  crushed,  or  ships  in  pride, 
Buried  by  navies  in  the  tide. 

I  would  not  laud  the  valiant  dead, 
Who  vainly  for  ambition  bled; 
Nor  pledge  the  loftiest  demi-god, 
That  ever  bathed  in  seas  of  blood. 

The  clarion  cry  to  me  doth  tell 
Of  all  that's  blessedness,  the  knell; 
Yon  standards,  sprinkled  o'er  the  plain, 
Wave  brightly,  'tis  to  fold  the  slain ! 

I  love  thee,   O,  my  natal  land, 
I  love  thy  sons,  a  brother  band; 
Thy  rocks  and  hills  and  vales,  to  me, 
Are  temples  of  the  truly  free. 

Long  be  they  such,  and  death  to  him 
That  seeks  thy  altar's  light  to  dim; 


WILLIAM  B.  TAPPAN.  251 

Chastisement  to  the  footstep  prest 
Rudely  upon  thy  virgin  breast. 

Yet  never  would  I  speed  thee  on 
To  bootless  fight,  nor,  warfare  won, 
Invoke  for  thee  undying*  fame, 
Or  deck  with  coronals  thy  name. 

Hateful,  who  leads  his  hosts  to  die 
Where  war-drums  roll  and  banners  fly; 
As  hateful,  who  would  honour  heal, 
Base  coward — with  the  duePs  steel. 

Cursed  be  the  song*  whose  sparkling  cheer 
Is  stolen  from  the  orphan's  tear; 
Perish  your  laurels,   O  ye  brave ! 
They  bourgeon  only  on  the  grave. 

O  thou,  whose  name,  when  heaven  stood  still 
To  listen,  woke  on  Judah's  hill — * 
Come,  and  with  gladness  in  thy  train 
Visit  a  weeping  world  again. 


1  On  earth,  Peace,  Good  will  to  men.— Song  of  the  Angels. 


252  THE  POEMS  OF 

REV.  ADONIRAM  JUDSON, 

MISSIONARY  TO  BURMAH. 

The  Baptist  Board  of  Missions  had  passed  a  resolution,  in- 
viting Mr.  Judson  to  visit  the  United  States  for  the  purpose  of 
stirring  up  the  churches  to  the  great  w  ork  of  evangelizing  and 
saving  the  world. 

Welcome  to  thee!  long*  lapse  of  time 

Hath  come  and  glanced  and  gone  between; 

Since  thou  for  yonder  idol  clime, 

A  wanderer  from  our  coasts  wast  seen. 

Of  toil  and  watchings  nigh  to  death, 

And  bonds,  we've  heard,  'mid  wrathful  foei 

And  war's  wild  stir,  where  once  the  breath 
Of  worship,  from  thy  Zayat  rose. 

We  wept,  when  persecution's  rod 
Gave  type  to  thee  of  Satan's  hour; 

And  joys  gushed  freely  forth,  when  God 
For  succour,  bared  his  arm  of  power. 

Well  hath  he  owned  the  men  of  toil, 

— Foes  to  their  ease,  the  friends  of  man — 

Who  gather  souls,  a  precious  spoil, 
From  Burmah  and  from  Indostan. 

The  breezes  thence  have  flung  along 
Sweets,  richer  than  their  spices  are; 

Hark  to  a  voice ! — 'tis  India's  song — 
Her  pagan  sons  are  bowed  in  prayer. 


WILLIAM  13.  TAPPAN.  253 

Welcome  to  thee — thou  wilt  not  leave 

The  god-like  embassy  undone; 
There  yet  are  fadeless  wreaths  to  weave. 

And  lofty  conquests  to  be  won. 

More  mothers,  taught  aright  to  pray, 
Will  point  their  lisping  ones  to  Boodh 

No  more, — but  from  the  Pagoda 

Will  lead  them  to  the  Great  and  Good. 

And,  stilled  some  little  orphan's  moans, 

Will  it  not  lift  its  heart  on  high, 
While  warbling  hymns  go  forth  in  tones 

Rich  as  the  beautiful  Pah?* 

Yet  while  Idolatry  its  bands 
Links  closer  round  the  heir  of  thrall, 

Upon  our  ears  in  Christian  lands 
His  far-off  cries  but  faintly  fall. 

On  these  thy  native  shores  to  men 
Who  bask  in  beams  of  living  light; 

Thou'lt  tell  of  those  beyond  its  ken — 
Of  Burmah's  millions  wrapt  in  night. 

And  other  pleaders  thou  wilt  bring — 
The  wan  cheek  and  the  sunken  eye; 


*  A  dialect  of  the  Sanscrit,  rich  and  harmonious,  now  a  dead 
language.  Make  Brun  affirms  that  the  Pali  is  the  language  of 
Religion. 


254 


THE  POEMS  OF 


Tokens,  that  round  her  memory  cling", 
Who  fled  before  thee  to  the  sky. 

Whose  smile  illumed  thy  prison's  gloom, 
Whose  noble  spirit  soothed  thy  care, — 

Who  kneels  in  yonder  bowers  of  bloom, 
With  raiment  bathed  in  glory  there. 

Welcome! — and  Newell  shall  we  greet ? 

And  Hall? — forbear — they  will  not  reck 
His  lone  return,  whose  eager  feet 

Once  trod  with  theirs  the  mission  deck. 


Ah  no— on  them  is  shed  the  calm, — 
The  heavenly  sabbath  of  the  just; 

Away,  beneath  the  leafy  palm 

They  sleep,  and  God  beholds  their  dust. 

Then  on! — his  joys  cannot  be  dim, 
Who,  trusting,  goes  to  seek  the  lost: 

O  there  are  coronals  for  him, 

Who  toils  for  Christ,  nor  shuns  the  cost. 


WILLIAM  B,  TAPPAN.  255 


CHRIST  IN  THE  TEMPEST. 

"AXD  HE  AROSE  AXD    REBUKED  THE  WIIfD,   AND  SAID 
UNTO   THE   SEA,   PEACE,   BE  STILL." 

Night  mantles  Judea  but  the  star  has  not  shone 

On  thy  bosom,  Galilee, — 
The  tempest  is  loud,  yet  the  barque  alone 

Is  labouring*  o'er  the  sea: 
The  Master,  entranced,  rides  the  turbulent  wave, 
O  say,  shall  its  depths  yield  the  Godhead  a  grave } 

Heeds  not  the  Redeemer  the  thunder's  increase  ? 

Shall  he  not  the  proud  whirlwind  disarm  ? 
For  see,  he  has  gone  to  the  slumbers  of  peace, 

With  Jesus  all  is  calm. 
By  his  waves  and  his  tempest  the  Maker  is  tost; 
In  his  iimocent  dreams  the  Sleeper  is  lost. 

The  disciples  in  terror  have  sprung  from  their  rest, 

Yet  vain  is  the  shipmen's  skill, 
Till  aroused  He  of  Nazareth  proclaims  the  behest: 

66  Ye  billows,  peace,  be  still!" 
The  billows  obedient  have  sunk  on  the  shore, 
The  sea  sleeps  in  murmurs,  the  tempest  is  o'er. 

O  thus,  when  my  soul  on  life's  ocean  is  tost, 

That  sea  without  a  calm — 
When  faith  shines  but  dimly  each  hope  is  lost, 

And  all  is  rude  alarm : 


256  THE  POEMS  OF 

When  the   waves   of   remembrance   in    mountain 

wreaths  roll, 
When  the  billows  of  sin  have  gone  over  my  soul: 

At  the  Cross  of  the  Sufferer  while  humbled  to  weep, 

I  mourn  my  stubborn  will; 
Do  thou,  in  compassion,  rebuke  the  deep 

And  whisper  "  Peace!  be  still!" 
The  billows  obedient  will  die  on  the  shore, 
The  sea  sleep  in  murmurs,  the  tempest  be  o'er. 


TIS  WELL  THAT  YE  REJECT  THE  CUP. 

'Tis  well  that  ye  reject  the  cup 

Whose  dregs  are  poison  all ; 
Nor  round  your  hearth  the  beverage  sup, 

Nor  at  the  banquet  hall. 
The  foaming  draught  ye  dash  away 

From  temperate  lips — 'twere  well 
Could  ye  the  thousands  check,  who  stray 

Madly,  unto  that  hell. 

O  God!  the  generous  youth  to  see, 

Their  country's  truest  pride; 
Who  to  that  'whelming  vortex  flee 

And  perish  in  the  tide. 
O  God!  the  maniac-tribe  to  know, 

That  swell  the  guilty  scroll ; 
And  writhe  'neath  self-inflicted  wo, 

The  vulture  of  the  soul. 


WILLIAM  B.  TAPPAN.  257 

Sword,  flesh  thy  yet  unsated  blade; 

Of  thousands  drink  the  gore; 
Yet  hath  the  cup  inglorious  laid 

In  death,  its  thousands  more. 
Arrow  of  night,  seek  out  the  host, 

And  bid  its  thickest  bow; 
Yet  shall  that  chalice  trophies  boast, 

Pestilence,  more  than  thou. 

Beware!  nor  yonder  goblet  grasp, 

Now  sparkling  to  the  brim: 
Though  pearls  of  price  'twere  thine  to  clasp, 

Though  gems  shone  round  the  rim. 
The  purple  juice  mantling  aright, 

That  far  its  fragrance  flings — 
Avoid  it — 'tis  to  reason's  sight 

A  serpent  armed  with  stings. 


DEATH    OF    THE    PATRIOTS,    JOHN    ADAMS    AND 
THOMAS  JEFFERSON,  JULY  4,  1826. 

The  trump  of  war  rings  loudly,  yet 

Burns  brighter  Glory's  flame; 
Where  the  Sons  of  Liberty  have  met 

To  seal  the  scroll  of  fame. 
They  pause!  that  band — it  is  not  fear 

That  bids  the  life-pulse  start; 
O,  no!  the  high  and  resolved  are  here, 

And  those  of  the  valorous  heart. 
y2 


258  THE  POEMS  OF 

They  shrink  not  from  the  unequal  fray, 

These  noble,  godlike  men; 
And  yet,  O  heaven !  to  thrust  away 

Cords  that  bind  not  again — 
Now  cheer  ye!  cheer  ye  to  the  strife! 

For  God  the  lot  is  cast; 
To  arms!  to  arms!  the  combat's  rife, 

The  Rubicon  is  passed. 

Years  that  have  flown,  ye  gave  to  birth 

Deeds  of  the  lofty  Brave; 
A  nation  free  among  the  earth, 

Sits  queen  on  Slavery's  grave. 
And  those  renowned,  her  Men  of  might, 

That  battled,  toiled,  and  bled, 
Have  gone  in  the  ray  of  Victory's  light 

To  join  the  martyr-dead. 

Blest  is  their  lot,  no  common  mould 

Inwraps  the  veteran's  form; 
He  slumbers,  gathered  to  that  fold 

Where  beats  not  Sorrow's  storm. 
But  ye,  hoar  Sires/  'twas  fit  that  ye 

Thus  hallowed  your  Proud  Day, 
When  in  thunders  of  that  Jubilee 

Your  spirits  passed  away. 

Yea,  while  our  anthems  rolled  afar, 
And  our  banners  floated  high, 

Glory  sublimely  wreathed  the  car 
That  bore  ye  to  the  sky. 


WILLIAM   B.  TAPPAX.  259 

Released,  ye  wait  in  flesh  not  now 

The  spirit-stirring'  call; 
O,  God,  'tis  lofty  thus  to  bow, 

'Tis  glorious  thus  to  fall. 


VEPvSES. 

Touch  not  that  gift!   it  is  hallowed  to  feeling1, 
To  the  virtues  of  him  that  in  glory  has  fled; 

An  offering,  a  nation's  emotion  revealing, 
'Tis  sacred  to  fame,  it  belongs  to  the  dead. 

Lay  it,  ye  worthy,  with  hearts  proudly  beating, 
On  altars  lit  brightly  with  gratitude's  fires; 

Bless  to  his  memory  the  home  of  kind  greeting, 
Preserve  to  his  offspring  the  hall  of  his  sires. 

He  has  fled  in  his  griefs,  even  now  to  that  spirit, 
Haply  it  lingers  around  us  in  love — 

Give  reverence  ye,  who  this  moment  inherit 
Blessings  bequeathed  by  the  sainted  above. 

Ye  unrevealed  ages!   eternize  the  glory, 
That  already  a  star  on  your  vestibule  glows; 

Men !  letter  the  rock  with  the  deeds  of  his  story, 
Honour  the  spot  where  his  ashes  repose. 


*  Occasioned  by  the  proposition  that  the  Jefferson  Fund  should, 
in  consequence  of  the  death  of  the  patriot,  be  appropriated  to 
other  than  the  original  design  of  liquidating  hU  deht>. 


260  THE  POEMS  OF 

His  pageant  is  dimmed  with  the  tears  of  a  nation, 
Blest  are  the  tears  that  such  relics  bedew; 

Yet  richer  and  purer  the  grate  fid  oblation* 

That  soothed  e'en  when  time  was  receding  from 
view. 


REQUIEM, 

Written  for  the  24th  of  July,  1826— Observed  in  Philadelphia  as  a 
day  of  mourning  for  Adams  and  Jefferson. 

Ix  glory  wrapt,  the  Sages  sleep — 

How  venerable  are  the  dead, 
When  freemen  gather  round  to  weep, 

Upon  the  hoary  patriarch's  bed! 
Garnered  in  ripeness,  to  the  tomb 

They  sank  by  nature's  kind  decay; 
Earth!  take  their  dust,  'till  thou  in  bloom 

Yield  it,  when  skies  have  fled  away. 

We  mourn  the  chiefs  of  that  proud  band 
That  rose  in  Freedom's  trying  hour; 

To  sound  her  trump  and  save  the  land, 
Their  native  land  from  Slavery's  power. 

Their  mighty  souls  no  terror  knew, 
They  blenched  not  at  the  rebel's  name 

*  Alluding  to  a  remittance  of  seven  thousand  five  hundred 
dollars  from  New  York,  which  satisfied  some  craving  creditors, 
and  enabled  the  benefactor  of  his  country  to  die  in  peace. 


WILLIAM  B.  TAPPAN.  261 

When,  calling-  heaven  the  deed  to  view, 
They  gave  themselves  to  deathless  fame. 

As  Israel's  covenant  went  before 

Her  hosts,   a  sign  and  guide  to  them, 
So  these  the  sacred  charter  bore, 

A  leading*  and  a  cheering-  gem. 
And  through  the  frequent  scath  and  fight, 

That  beacon  led  our  fathers  on, 
Till  o'er  Columbia's  weary  night 

In  splendours  broke  the  noonday  sun. 

Glorious  in  life,  to  them  'twas  given 

In  hallowed  hour  to  pass  away 5 
Blest  hour!  marked  by  approving  heaven, 

A  Natal  and  Triumphant  day. 
The  thunders  that  will  ever  tell 

To  future  time  our  Jubilee, 
Patriots!   shall  ring  a  mournful  knell 

Of  grief — of  gladness  too,   for  ye. 

While  one  by  one  the  ancient  sires 

Have  joined  the  dead  at  glory's  call, 
To  us  be  given  their  holy  fires, 

On  us  may  their  bright  mantles  fall. 
Ye  bending  spirits!   hover  nigh, 

Inspire  us,  while  anew  we  swear 
The  boon  ye  left  we'll  guard,   and  die 

Ere  we  that  birthright  do  impair. 


262  THE  POEMS  OF 


TO  MY  MOTHER  IN  NEW  ENGLAND. 

Mother!   six  summer  suns  have  flown 

Since  thou  and  I  have  met; 
And  though  this  heart  has  wept  alone, 

It  never  could  forget 
The  happy  hours  of  infancy, 

Those  hours  unknown  to  care — 
When  sheltered  in  a  mother's  love 

It  fondly  nestled  there. 

Mother!  I  well  remember  thou 

Wouldst  smile  upon  thy  boy; 
And  warmly  on  his  childish  brow, 

Imprint  the  kiss  of  joy. 
I  wondered  why  my  gladness  then 

Was  changed  to  sudden  fear, 
When  on  my  glowing  cheek  I  felt 

The  traces  of  a  tear. 

And  memory  lingers  at  the  hour 

When,  leaving  all  my  play, 
I  sought  her  presence,  from  whose  smiles 

I  was  not  wont  to  stray. 
I  was  a  mother-boy  I  knew, 

Yet  was  I  much  to  blame  ? 
For  pleasure  of  the  heart  like  this, 

The  world  has  not  a  name. 

I  slept — but  thou  couldst  not,  for  oft 
My  sleep,  unquiet,  told 


WILLIAM  B.  TAPPAN.  263 

Of  sickness  stealing*  o'er  my  frame, 

And  midnight  saw  thee  hold 
Thy  child  within  thy  wearied  arms, 

Whilst  thou,  to  nature  true, 
Wouldst  sooth  my  frequent  pain  with  all 

A  mother's  love  could  do. 

Long*  years  have  wandered  by  since  then, 

And  I  have  sped  my  way 
Far  from  New  England's  hills,  where  I 

First  hailed  the  laughing  day: 
Yet,  Mother!   truant  thought  returns 

And  lingers  oft  with  thee; 
Hast  thou  not,  O  my  parent,   yet 

A  blessing"  left  for  me 5 

Thou  art  not  what  thou  wast,  for  age 

Has  silvered  o'er  thy  hair; 
Thy  eye  is  dim,  thy  cheek  is  pale — 

Time  sets  his  signet  there; 
Yet  dearer,  dearer  to  this  heart, 

Thy  reverend  hoary  head, 
My  Mother!   than  the  auburn  locks 

That  youth  upon  thee  shed. 

How  could  it  fail  to  touch  my  heart 

^Yith  filial  thought,  when  I 
Knew  it  was  care  for  me  that  paled 

Thy  cheek,  and  dimmed  thy  eye' 
Yes,  eloquent  the  tender  glance 

That  thou  dost  turn  on  me ; 
Dimly,  yet  kindly — in  that  look, 

Hew  much  of  love  I  see! 


264  THE  POEMS  OF 

Be  it  my  lot  to  smooth  the  way, 

Before  thy  pilgrim  feet; 
And  cause  the  heart  that  yearned  for  me, 

Long1,  long"  with  hope  to  beat. 
Be  it  my  lot  to  pillow  where 

Thou  seek'st  thy  last  repose; 
One  little  flower  shall  mark  the  spot — 

The  simple  church-yard  rose. 


MY  FATHERS  GRAVE. 

Since  thou  betook'st  thee  to  thy  rest, 

Long  time,  my  father,  has  passed  by: 
And  gathered  now  upon  thy  breast, 

The  dust  of  twenty  years  doth  he. 
Corruption,  too,  its  work  has  done, 

With  many  that  wept  then  for  thee; 
And  those  thou  lovedst,   one  by  one, 

Have  slumbered  in  tranquillity: 
1  was  but  young",  and  yet  the  day 

Has  never  from  remembrance  gone, 
When  I  beheld  thee  borne  away, 

When  I  was  left,  and  felt  alone. 
O,  there's  a  throb  of  dreariness 

That  mere  affliction  never  gave  ; 
Earth  seems  to  him  a  wilderness, 

Who  bends  upon  a  parent's  grave. 


WILLIAM  B.  TAPPAN.  265 

How  many  visions,   opening-  bright, 

Have  dazzled,   cheated,   and  have  fled; 
How  many  hopes  have  sunk  in  night, 

Since  thou  hast  tenanted  that  bed — 
And  multitudes  whose  looks  were  high, 

Like  waves,  have  sparkled,  heaved  and  gone, 
The  voice  of  war  hath  thundered  by, 

And  thou,  reg'ardless,  hast  slept  on. 
That  dreamless  couch!  that  peaceful  tomb ! 

O,  they  do  greatly  err  that  tell 
Its  chambers  are  abodes  of  gloom, 

Where  death  and  terrors  only  dwell; 
For  me,  I  love  to  think  upon 

That  only  refuge  of  repose, 
Along  whose  depths — cheered  by  no  sun — 

The  light  of  resurrection  flows. 

Thou  art  one  of  the  chosen  band 

That  ring  high  harps  where  splendours  glow; 
I  do  rejoice — and  yet  thy  hand 

I've  needed  to  guide  me  below. 
In  boyhood's  path  I  missed  the  care 

That  thorns  detected  'mid  the  flowers; 
O,  I  had  few  or  none  to  share 

As  thou  would' st  share,  and  cheer  my  hours. 
For  I  have  wandered  in  a  wild 

Where  disappointment  still  appears; 
Where  wast  thou  Father,  when  thy  child 

Trod  ways  uncertain — oft  in  tears  ? 
Yet  brighter  hopes  have  sometimes  shed 

Their  rays,  and  I  have  triumphed  too 


266  THE  POEMS  OF 

In  thoughts  of  that  untroubled  bed 
Whose  slumbers  are  forever  true. 

Though  many  years  have  wandered  by 

Since  I  have  looked  upon  thy  face; 
Though  thou,  hid  from  my  gaze  dost  lie, 

And  far  from  me  thy  resting  place — 
My  Father!  hallowed  is  the  thought 

That  dwells,  and  fondly  dwells  with  thee; 
Dearer  in  this  dim  world  there's  nought, 

Than  is  thy  memory  to  me — 

'Tis  joined  with  love  of  her,  whose  love, 

A  mother's — cheers  my  lonely  way; 
And  while  I  mourn  thee  now  above, 

My  heart  to  her  would  tribute  pay. 
Rest  thou! — I  strew  not  on  thy  bed 

The  early  flower,  yet  green  and  fair 
The  spot  where  thou  reclin'st  thy  head, 

The  memory  of  the  Just  is  there. 

April  29th,  1826. 


MATERNAL  LOVE. 


Fair  is  the  opening  grace 
That  blooms  and  blushes  on  the  artless  maid; 

Beauty,  unfolding,  we  delight  to  trace, 
To  innocence  and  youth  our  earliest  vow  is  paid. 


WILLIAM  B.  TAPPAN.  267 

Yet  youth  is  like  the  flower 
That  rears  its  petals  on  the  lap  of  May; 

Who  that  admires,  laments  not  its  brief  hour, 
And  cherishing*  its  sweets,  asks  not  a  longer  stay? 

Far  lovelier  than  these, 
And  dearer  to  the  heart  of  sober  joy 

Is  she  whom  the  delights  of  home  can  please, 
Who  to  her  bosom  clasps  her  much-loved  smiling*  boy. 

O,  surely  none  can  tell, 
W^hat  nought  but  love,  parental,  e'er  can  feel — 

How  strong,  how  tender  is  the  witching  spell 
These  dear  ones  round  us  fling,  from  life  what  cares 
they  steal. 

Graces,  though  prized,  must  die; 
Yea,  even  that  form  of  symmetry,  shall  age 

Relentless,  humble,  and  the  love-lit  eye 
That  speaks  and  sparkles  now — Time  shall  its  fires 
assuage. 

Maternal  love  still  new 
Still  precious,  brightens  with  the  touch  of  years; 

O,  cheerless  is  the  heart  that  never  knew 
All  of  its  j  oys  and  pangs — its  secret  smiles  and  tears. 


268  THE  POEMS  OF 


PAGANISM  COULD  NOT  REPLY. 

A  Hindoo  of  a  reflecting;  tarn  of  mind,  but  devoted  to  idolatry, 
lay  on  his  death  bed.  As  he  saw  himself  about  to  plunge  into 
that  boundless  unknown,  he  cried  out,  *  what  will  become  of  me?' 
6  O'  said  a  Brahmin  who  stood  by,  *  you  will  inhabit  another  bo- 
dy!' *  And  where,' said  he,  *  shall  I  go  then?'  '  Into  another!' 
6  And  where  then?'  *  into  another,  and  so  on,  through  thousands 
of  millions!'  Darting  across  this  whole  period,  as  though  it  were 
but  an  instant,  he  cried,  i  Where  shall  I  go  then?'  awl  Paganism 
could  not  reply. 

Thou  canst  not  whisper  to  that  soul 

Now  pluming*  for  her  flight — 
Of  other  worlds  that  dimly  roll 

Beyond  those  orbs  of  light; 
Thou  canst  not  guide  her  trembling  barque 

O'er  yon  uncertain  sea; 
That  ocean-path  is  wild  and  dark, 

Benighted  one  to  thee. 

Thou  canst  not,  boaster  as  thou  art, 

Discern  another  clime; 
Nor  calm  the  pulses  of  the  heart 

That  beats  no  more  for  time: 
For  thou  hast  never  known  nor  dreamed 

Of  wisdom's  only  way: 
Upon  thee  yet  hath  never  beamed 

Salvation's  guiding  ray. 

What  shall  assure  thee  of  a  shore 
Where  dwell  the  shadowy  band, 

That  ages  by-past,  went  before 
To  seek  that  unknown  land? 


V  LLLIAM   B.   TAPPAN.  26V 

Thy  immolations5 — can  the  sigh 

Of  agony,  reveal 
Mercy  to  him,  self-doomed  to  die 

Beneath  the  bloody  wheel? 

Thine  idols? — though  the  costly  gem 

Sparkles  around  their  shrine; 
Though  thou  in  blindness,  unto  them 

Yield  homage,  deemed  divine — 
Know,  Pagan!   one  such  secret  tear 

As  penitence  lets  fall, 
Is  unction  to  the  heart,  more  dear. 

More  holv  than  them  all. 


THE  YEAR. 

Thou  unknown  fragment  of  that  scroll 
Whose  signet  was,  ere  Time  began; 

Ocean,  whose  waves  were  wont  to  roll 
Ere  God  from  nothing  fashioned  man — 

Whence  art  thou,   evanescent  Year? 

Atom!  declare,  what  dost  thou  here  ? 

Is  it,  perchance,  to  mock  awhile 

With  added  moments,  life's  poor  day? 

With  cheating  vision  to  beguile 
Man  that  appears  and  hastes  away  ? 

Deceitful  tide !  thy  meteor  wave 

Buovs  him,  vet  bears  him  to  his  grave, 
z  2 


270  THE  POEMS  OF 

Wilt  thou  not  like  the  other  years 
That  were  before  thee,   disappear? 

Why  com'st  thou  with  thy  dreams  and  tears, 
Thy  burdens,  melancholy  year? 

*Tis  fit  thou  too  should'st  come  and  go, 

For  nought  unchanging  is  below. 

'Tis  fit  that  all  should  fade  and  die, 

Yea,  Ruin's  voice  shall  shake  the  spheres; 

The  yellow  leaf  that  sails  on  high 
The  weary  date  of  days  and  years 

Alike  pass  on  and  are  forgot, 

Once  here,  but  now  remembered  not. 

And  let  them  pass,  for  what  but  dust 
Are  wheeling  worlds,  and  what  are  we  ? 

Creatures,  from  frailty  formed  at  first, 
Yet,  linked  to  an  eternity, 

When  ruined  worlds  on  worlds  shall  roll 

Then  lives  the  disembodied  soul. 


REMOVAL  OF  THE  REMAINS  OF  COMMODORE 
PERRY  TO  HIS  NATIVE  LAND. 

Wext  he  not  out  in  proud  array, 

Wreaths  on  his  youthful  brow  ? 
He  went  from  fields  of  well-won  fray 

Forth  to  bid  others  bow. 


WILLIA31  B.  TAPPAN.  271 

He  went  as  the  devoted  should, 

Even  at  a  nation's  call ; 
Why  weep  that  for  the  brave  and  good 

Is  wove  the  funeral  pall  ? 

Ended  the  watchful  warrior's  toil, 

His  mightiest  conflict  o'er, 
Returns  he  now  with  glorious  spoil, 

Unto,  his  native  shore : 
He  comes,  but  not  with  song  and  shout, 

He  comes,  and  eyes  are  dim; 
The  muffled  drum  and  fife  ring  out 

Their  melancholy  hymn. 

How  loftily  ran  his  career, 

Let  vanquished  veterans  tell; 
Briefly,  we  know  by  sorrow's  tear 

'Tis  whispered  in  that  knell. 
Yet  for  him,  leader  in  the  fight, 

Freshly  survives  a  name; 
Upon  his  'scutcheon  falls  the  light 

Of  high  and  spotless  fame. 

Hence !  ye  that  weep  o'er  blighted  bloom, 

Wailing  that  youth  should  die ; 
Hence !  his  is  not  the  timeless  tomb 

Where  hopes  unbudded  lie. 
O,  for  the  glorious  death  of  them 

That  live  beyond  our  tears — 
O,  for  the  name,  the  unwasting  gem, 

That  mocks  the  touch  of  years ! 
1826. 


272  THE  POEMS  OF 


TO  ONE  THAT  MEDITATED  SUICIDE. 

Thou,  whom  stern  angriish  wastes  away, 

Whose  sallow  cheek  is  token 
That  angel-peace  makes  not  her  stay 

With  thee,  the  lost  and  broken — 
Thou  shudderest  at  the  many  pangs 

That  weary  ones  inherit 5 
Misery,  with  relentless  fangs, 

Hath  fastened  on  thy  spirit. 

Too  weak  to  bear  the  petty  strife 

And  vanquish  by  enduring, 
Wilt  thou  a  recreant,  rush  from  life, 

Remorse,  unknown,  ensuring? 
The  secret  strings  that  have  their  birth 

In  kindness,  wilt  thou  sever  ? 
And  snap  the  cords  that  link  to  earth, 

Aye,  rudely,  and  forever! 

And,  rash  one !  darest  thou  deface 

His  tabernacle  given, 
Whereon  is  left  the  matchless  grace, 

The  dignity  of  heaven? 
Exist  not  ties  to  bind  thee  still 

To  those  of  thy  own  nature  ? 
Imperious  duties  to  fulfil 

Unto  thy  great  Creator? 

Bethink  thee! — is  there  not  a  heart 
Whose  pulse  to  thine  is  beating ? 


WILLIAM  B.  TAPPAX.  278 

And  dost  thou  not  possess  a  part 
In  childhood's  guileless  greeting? 

Stay  thee!   a  soothing*  hand  is  near 
To  dry  the  tear  that's  stealing: 

And  Hope,  the  bright  enchantress,  here 
Her  rainbow  is  revealing. 

'Tis  sad,  in  sorrow's  bitter  doom 

This  gay  cold  world  to  cumber; 
Yet  who  within  the  sullen  tomb, 

Uncalled,  should  seek  a  slumber? 
O,  Thou,  the  framer  of  my  lot, 

Who  gav'st  and  who  has  taken, 
Do  what  thou  wilt,  but  leave  me  not 

Thus  hopelessly  forsaken. 


SIMEON  8  PROPHECY. 

The  Temple  of  the  Lord  is  still, 

Forsaken  are  the  golden  shrines; 
Upon  Moriah's  holy  hill 

The  day-beam  of  Salvation  shines. 
And  hark!   a  voice  along  her  halls 

Is  heard,  in  strains  of  prophecy: 
ss  Awake,  Jerusalem — thy  walls 

Rebuild,  thy  glory  draweth  nigh. 

"Now,  Israel,  shall  thy  tumults  cease, 
Up,  Judah  and  with  songs  adore; 


274  THE  POEMS  OF 

My  waiting-  spirit!  go  in  peace, 

Thou  hast  beheld — what  neecTst  thou  more  ?" 
'Tis  Inspiration's  awful  voice, 

The  utterance  of  fleeing*  breath; 
The  soul  recalled  to  bid  rejoice, 

When  quivering*  at  the  gate  of  death. 

Yes,  favoured  one,  'tis  thine  to  trace 

His  lineaments  who  dwelt  of  old; 
Those  withered  arms,  in  strong*  embrace, 

The  Hope  of  Israel  enfold. 
I  see  thee,  man  of  wintry  hairs! 

I  see  the  hghtning*  of  that  eye; 
I  tremble,  while  its  g-lance  declares 

The  mystic  Godhead  passes  by. 

Thou  holy  Seer!  what  visions  rise, 

In  long  perspective,  on  thy  soul; 
Ages  of  glory  meet  thine  eyes, 

And  unborn  years  before  thee  roll. 
Who  would  not  die  as  thou  would' st  die, 

When  Light  and  Life  attend  the  bed? 
Who  would  not  wish,  like  thee,  to  He 

Where  blessings  crown  the  faithful  dead? 


WILLIAM  B.  TAPPAN.  275 


SONG 

OF  THE  WARRIORS  THE  NIGHT  PRECEDING  THE  BATTLE 
OF  BUNKER-HILL. 

This  night,  ye  hardy  yeomen!  wield 
The  spade,  on  glory's  fallow  field; 
And  ne'er  shall  garnered  harvest  yield 

A  richer  meed  of  victory. 
Toil  on !  toil  on !  ye  true  and  brave, 
Dig  for  yon  foe  his  gory  grave, — 
Aye,  share  that  pillow! — 'tis  to  save 

Your  sires  and  sons  from  slavery. 

Who  sleeps  when  lustful  tyrants  wake  ? 

Who  in  her  peril  will  forsake 

His  country  ?  let  the  dastard  quake 

At  Lexington's  artillery. 
Toil  on!  toil  on!  'tis  glorious  cheer — 
Our  swords  well  tried,  the  Briton  near, 
Fame's  monument  shall  yeomen  rear 

'Neath  heaven's  starry  canopy! 

On  Charles's  tossing  wave  below 
His  vessel  rides  and  he,  the  foe, 
Unconscious  of  the  whelming  blow, 

Shouts  in  his  scornful  revelry; 
Toil  on!  toil  on!  the  yeoman  sings, — 
Unheeded  yonder  red-cross  flings 
Its  fires — we  fear  no  wrath  of  kings, 

God  builds  the  Patriot's  sepulchre. 


276  THE  T0E3IS  OF 


YE  SPIRITS  OF  THE  JUST. 

Ye  spirits  of  the  just,  that  soar 

Beyond  those  starry  fields  sublime, 
Dwellers  in  light  with  whom  are  o'er 

The  pageants  and  the  tears  of  time, — 
Say,  are  the  thoughts  we  entertain 

Of  yonder  unknown  worlds,  untrue  } 
Are  those  high  mysteries  but  vain, 

Dissolved,  or  unrevealed  to  you? 

Prophets — a  long  and  awful  train, 

Pilgrims,  that  bowed  beneath  the  rod, 
And  martyrs  who  from  racks  of  pain 

Soared  to  the  presence  of  your  God — 
Earth  gave  ye  not  her  poor  renown; 

Humility  your  only  gem — 
'Twas  yours  to  seek  a  nobler  crown, 

Say,  wear  ye  now  that  diadem? 

Thou  disembodied  one  whom  here 

'Twas  ours,  in  fellowship,  to  know; 
Who,  buoyed  by  Faith,  without  a  fear, 

Fled  from  endearments  prized  below; 
On  the  dear  hopes  that  soothed  thy  bed, 

Hath  disappointment  flung  its  pall? 
Or  dost  thou  bosom  now  thy  head 

On  Him,  thou  chosest  as  thy  All? 

Forbear — yon  ministering  one 

Thine  eyes,  in  flesh,  shall  never  see  j 


WILLIAM!  B.  TAFFAN. 

The  dull  cold  sepulchre,  its  own, 
Mortal!   shall  never  yield  to  thee. 

See,  on  futurity's  long-  night 
A  cheering*  beam  of  heaven  is  shed; 

Receive  thou  Revelation's  light, 
And  not  the  visions  of  the  dead. 


TO  THE  HOLY  ALLIANCE. 

Slaves  of  royalty  advance! 

Russia,  leader  of  the  host; 
Perjured  Austria,   crouching- France, 

Welcome,  welcome  to  our  coast! 
Ave,  the  welcome  freemen  show 

To  the  base,  we  give  to  ye; 
Death  to  him  whose  coward  blow 

Strikes  at  heaven-born  Liberty. 

Touch  our  soil,  and  that  true  spirit, 

Spark,  ethereal,  given  to  Meet — 
Which  from  patriots  we  inherit, 

Shall,  resistless,  rise  again. 
Touch  our  soil — dare  not!   'tis  holy, 

Every  clod  would  rush  to  life; 
Heroes  from  their  cerements  gory, 

Starting-,  would  renew  the  strife. 

Shame  that  men — God's  imag-e  wearing- 
Scorn  his  work  and  crush  the  Free; 


278  THE  POEMS  OF 

Men  they  are  not,  whose  curst  daring 

Rivets  chains  of  slavery. 
Shrink  ye  traitors,   for  the  sword, 

Righteously  unsheathed,  shall  never 
Rest,  till  wrath's  red  vials  poured 

On  your  crimes,  blot  ye  forever. 

Holy  despots!  not  in  regions 

Warmed  with  Liberty's  fair  beam, 
Should  the  tyrant  halt  his  legions, 

Should  the  sword  of  bandits  gleam: 
Haste  to  yon  inglorious  clime, 

Where  of  earth  abide  the  stain; 
Nations  sunk  in  sloth  and  crime; 

Haste  to  Naples,  haste  to  Spain. 

Rise  ye  Patriots,  to  recover 

Vantage-ground,  by  treachery  lost; 
Gallant  veterans,  fight  over 

Battles  with  the  craven  host; 
Mix  a,  yet,  the  lion-hearted, 

To  redeem  his  race  shall  fly; 
Chiefs  shall  rally,  though  long  parted, 

Roused  by  Riego's  dying  cry. 

1826. 


WILLIAM  B.  TAPPAN.  279 

DEATH  OF  FISK, 

AMERICAN  MISSIONARY  AT  PALESTINE. 

Went  he  unto  that  holy  land, 

In  panoply  arrayed, 
With  banner  and  with  gleaming  brand, 

In  that  high  and  bold  crusade? 
Fought  he  where  Christendom  its  hosts 

Poured  forth  of  warlike  men, 
When  Cceur-de-Lion  smote  the  coasts 

Of  the  scornful  Saracen? 

Or  unto  Helena's*  proud  shrine 

Did  the  votary  ascend? 
Did  he  at  altars  deemed  divine, 

With  kings  and  warriors  bend? 
He  wept  where  martyrs  wept,  and  prayed 

O'er  the  ruins  of  that  land, 
Where  sleep,  beneath  the  palm-tree's  shade, 

The  seer  and  the  patriarch  band. 

He  trod  not  Olivet's  ascent 

With  thought  of  high  emprize; 
He  went  as  sandalled  pilgrims  went, 

In  meek  and  lowly  guise. 


*  The  original  building,  erected  A.  D.  326,  was  destroyed  at  the 
beginning  of  the  eleventh  century,  and  rebuilt  by  a  Greek  enrpe 
ror  in  1048.  Nicephorus  enumerates  twenty-six  churches  and 
chapels,  built  by  the  empress  Helena  in  the  Holy  Land.— Clarke's 
Travels. 


280 


THE  POEMS  OF 


And  dearer  to  his  love,  thy  name, 

Thy  peace,  Jerusalem — 
Than  the  trumpet's  loudest  note  of  fame 

Or  the  coronal's  brightest  g-em. 

Sped  not  to  Palestine,  men,  who 

Should  fearless  heralds  prove 5 
Aye,  they  went  forth  and  they  were  two* 

In  form,  but  one  in  love; 
The  field  is  ripe,  and  where  are  they? 

Their  path  is  now  untrod; 
Send  labourers! — these  have  winged  their  way 

To  the  citv  of  our  God. 


EXPOSTULATION, 
OCCASIONED   BT  THE  REMOVAL  OF  THE  CHEHOKEES. 

Stay,  yet,  white  man,   heaven  no  longer 

Can  thy  lust  of  gain  endure; 
Stay  thy  hand,  yet,  bold  oppressor, 

Crush  not  the  defenceless  poor. 

"  Lo,  the  Indian!" — child  of  sorrow, 

Remnant  of  a  mighty  race; 
Grief  is  his,  no  ray  of  gladness 

Beams  upon  his  dwelling  place. 


*  Messrs.  Fisk  and  Parsons. 


WILLIAM  B.  TAPPAX.  281 

Free  as  were  his  mountain  breezes, 
Once  he  roamed,  the  son  of  kings, 

Boundless  was  his  rude  dominion, 
Where  he  drank  his  native  spring's. 

Wouldst  thou  chase  him  from  his  covert, 

Bid  him  to  the  desert  fly  ? — 
Wouldst  thou  tear  him  from  the  hill-side, 

Where  his  father's  ashes  he? 

Thou  hast  seen  upon  his  reason 
Science  her  mild  influence  pour; 

Thou  hast  seen  the  ray  of  Bethlehem 
Shine,  where  all  was  night  before. 

Man!  of  these  wouldst  thou  despoil  him? 

Filch  his  heaven — drive  hope  afar? 
Yes,  for  sordid  gold,  the  white  man 

Would  blot  out  Redemption's  Star. 

God  of  justice,  though  pavilioned 

'Mid  the  thunder,  misery's  sigh 
Claims  thy  notice.  Thou'rt  a  Helper, 

When  no  other  help  is  nigh. 
a2 


^82  THE  POEMS  OF 


MRS.  SARAH  J- 


She  wakes  not — she  whose  look  was  love, 

Whose  voice  was  music's  breath — 
That  angel-smile  is  caught  above, 

That  voice  is  lost  in  death. 
She  that  was  beauteous  and  sincere, 

To  man's  last  foe  hath  bowed; 
Each  grace  is  now  companion  here 

Unto  the  worm  and  shroud. 

She  wakes  not — aye,  from  that  long  sleep 

When  shall  earth's  tenant  wake  ? 
Dreams  of  the  sepulchre  are  deep, 

What  shall  those  visions  break  ? 
Unto  that  cell  of  gloom  and  damp, 

Earth's  tumults  come  not  nigh; 
She  wakes  not  at  the  hurried  tramp, 

Nor  at  the  battle-cry. 

She  wakes  not  till  the  trumpet's  tongue 

Stirs  shuddering  sea  and  earth  ; 
When  worlds  on  worlds,  in  ruin  flung, 

Shall  heave  as  at  their  birth. 
The  heart  that  knew  affliction's  power, 

The  oft-dimmed  eye,  now  sealed, 
Shall  beat  not,  beam  not,  till  that  hour 

In  thunders  is  revealed. 

She  wakes  not  early  ills  to  brave, 
That  bade  her  spirit  bow; 


WILLIAM  B.  TAPPAN.  233 

The  tears  she  unto  sorrow  gave, 

Are  gems  of  beauty  now. 
She  wakes  not — yea,  she  hath  awoke ! 

Escaped  from  night  below; 
"What  floods  of  morn  have  on  her  broke, 

That  bright  one,   who  may  know  ? 


TO  MY  TWO  CHILDREN. 

Ye  are  alive  to  bliss,  my  boys, 

Your  pulses  beat  to  healthful  play; 
Visions  of  peaceful  heartfelt  joys — 

Do  they  not  hover  o'er  your  way  ? 
Your  bounding  bosoms,  light  and  free — 

Nor  past  nor  future  is  their  care; 
Sufficeth  it  alone,  that  ye 

The  bright  alluring  present  share. 

'Tis  transient  all — yet  who  shall  break 

The  fair  frail  mirror  of  your  mirth  ? 
Ye  are  but  dreamers  ;  who  shall  wake 

Ye  to  realities  of  earth  ? 
Dream  on,  dream  on,  it  cannot  last, 

With  boyhood  will  depart  that  dream; 
And  soon,  to  retrospect,  the  past 

But  shadows  of  the  dead  shall  seem. 

Who  would  forget,  that  when  a  child, 
Life  put  on  lovely  robes  for  him? 


284  THE  FOEttS  OF 

That  then  imagination  wild, 

Flashed  to  the  eyes  that  now  are  dim; 

AVho  can  forget  when  hope  danced  high, 
And  Syren-Love  of  witchery  sung } 

Some  may  forget,   but  ne'er  shall  I, 

The  white -winged  hours  when  joy  was  young. 

Yea,  though  upon  my  tempered  brow 

Eomance  hath  ceased  to  bind  her  flowers, 
'Tis  pleasant  as  I  wander  now, 

To  linger  o'er  my  childish  hours. 
Green  spot  of  life!  how  sweet  to  gaze 

On  bliss  so  simple,  yet  sincere; 
To  turn  from  the  wild  waste  of  days 

And  feast  my  aching  vision  here ! 

Aye,  smile  my  boys,  't  were  better  so, 

Than  darkly  read  the  coming  ill; 
That  chequered  page  the  gray -haired  know, 

But  heedlessness  is  childhood's  still. 
Blest  ignorance !   Compassion's  balm, 

To  drug  the  life-cup  of  our  tears; 
Existence,  thou  wouldst  wear  a  charm 

Did  prescience  come  not  with  thy  years. 

Laugh  on,  my  children,  while  ye  may, 

Yours  now  is  not  the  actor's  part; 
That  laugh,  perchance,  in  future  day, 

May  vainly  hide  a  broken  heart; 
Yet  lingers  in  your  perfect  bliss, 

Ingenuous  feeling,  brightly  new; 
And  childhood's  love,  and  childhood's  kiss, 

Are  ever  holy,  ever  true. 


WILLIAM  B.  TAPPAN.  265 


INVOCATION. 

We  ask  thee  not,  O  God!   to  bow 

Thy  heavens,  these  sighs  to  hear; 
Unto  those  seats  of  life  and  song 

They  fly,  and  reach  thine  ear; 
For  thou  art  condescending*  still, 

When  suppliants  come  to  thee; 
Though  thy  pavilion  is  the  cloud, 

And  low  and  poor  are  we. 

Thou  know'st  we  tabernacle  where 

Envy  and  wrong  abound; 
In  bosoms  of  our  dearest  trust 

Deceit  is  ofVnest  found. 
Thou  know'st  that  man  to  fellow  man 

Is  oft  the  direst  foe; 
The  streams  of  kindness  in  his  soul 

Are  tainted  as  they  flow. 

For  who  hath  pillowed  all  his  heart 

On  seeming  honour's  breast, 
Nor  found,  in  sorrow's  bitter  doom, 

That  refuge  but  a  jest  ? 
Who  hath  not  sought  some  lofty  hope, 

And  said,  here  is  my  stay, 
Yet  saw  how  like  the  summer  sun, 

It  passed  in  clouds  away? 

Yea,  he,  the  heritor  of  ill, 
In  silence  must  it  bide; 


286  the  poems  of 

The  world  that  wrings  out  bitter  tears, 
WiU  yet  those  tears  deride — 

But  thou,  O  God!   art  not  of  clay: 
To  shield  the  wretch  is  thine; 

5Tis  good  to  tell  our  cares  to  Thee, 
Who  will  to  help  incline. 

Man  may  administer  to  him, 

The  hapless  child  of  need; 
Yea,   and  bind  up  the  broken  heart 

When  interest  prompts  the  deed; 
But  Thou  lov'st  those  that  know  Thee  not, 

And  thus  dost  man  reprove; 
Thou  art — and  there  is  none  beside — 

Disinterested  Love. 


REVOLUTIONS. 

THE   SANDWICH  ISLANDS FRANCE. 

u  Tidings,  my  lord  the  king!''—  Gtuhi  to  David. 

Tidings  from  the  Sea!  its  isles, 

Centuries  begirt  in  nig-ht — 
Burnished  by  the  day-springes  smiles, 

Shine,   the  lovely  pearls  of  light. 

Tiding-s!   riding's!   ocean's  King", 
Who  the  islands  in  his  hand 


WILLIAM   B.  TAPPA.X.  287 

Taketh,  as  a  little  tiling, 

Speaks  to  sea  and  speaks  to  land. 

Startled  from  his  ancient  prey, 
Flies  the  vampyre,  bird  of  blood; 

Pe-le,  vanquished,  hastes  to  pay 
Holocausts  alone  to  God. 

Tidings !  tidings !   fast  and  far, 

Winds  and  waters  urge  it  on, 
From  the  occidental  star, 

To  the  chambers  of  the  sun. 

Weepers  o'er  the  slain,  rejoice, 

And  new  vigour  strongly  draw 
Ye  of  heaven-beseeching  voice, 

Now  the  pagan  waits  his  law. 

Where  is  gladness,  God!  to  view 

Mau-i  sitting  at  thy  feet* 
Temple  domes  of  O-a-hu, 

Swelling  over  Satan's  seat  5 

Broke,  the  tabu's  guilty  power — 

Stilled,  the  sacrificial  drum5 — 
Christendom,  Jehovah's  hour 

Seest  thou,  and  art  thou  dumb  ? 

Tidings!   Gaul  hath  woke  at  length; 

In  her  thousands  burns  the  flame, — 
And  an  injured  realm,  in  strength, 

Rising,  treads  it  foes  to  shame. 


288  THE  POEMS  OF 

Tidings!  tidings!  Freedom's  cry 
Breaks  for  ever  Bourbon's  trance; 

And  her  broad  tri-colour,  high, 
Streams  above  thy  lilies,   France. 

Hymns  to  Orlean's  dawning  glory, 
Where  the  fleur-de-lis  hath  set  j 

Marble  for  the  martyr's  story, 
Civic  crowns  for  Lafayette. 

Tidings  thunder  o'er  the  wave; 

Despotism  goads  no  more; 
And  the  story  of  the  brave, 

Rocks  the  transatlantic  shore. 

Flies  not  gladness  through  our  coasts, 
And  the  voice  of  mirthful  men? 

Yea,   a  shout,  the  shout  of  hosts, 
Rang  in  cheer  and  triumph  then. 

Yet,  O  God,  when  sceptres  fall, 
Empires  down  to  dust  are  hurled — 

Thine  shall  flourish,   all  in  all, 
Throned  above  a  ruined  world. 

1830. 


WILLIAM  B.  TAPPAN.  289 


DEPARTURE  OF  THE  MISSIONARIES, 

MESSRS.  ALEXANDER  AND  THOMPSON,  FROM  THE  WEST; 
FOR  PALESTINE  AND  THE  SANDWICH  ISLANDS,  NO- 
VEMBER,   1831. 

Away  unto  Jerusalem! 

An  alien  to  us  be; 
And  henceforth  for  thy  fellows  choose 

The  men  of  Galilee. 

Thy  father's  house — thy  native  land — 

Another  lot  is  thine ; 
Thy  kindred  are  the  mission  band, 

Thy  country  Palestine. 

Thy  embassy  is  glorious, 

Thy  feet  with  peace  are  shod; 
Go  forth  and  herald  Christ  to  them 

That  tread  where  He  hath  trod. 

And  speak  where  Fisk  and  Parsons  spake 

The  words  of  holy  balm, 
And,  haply,  thee  to  rest  betake 

With  them,  below  the  palm. 

Thou,  too,  away,  and  tempt  the  wave, 

And  should  its  sullen  womb 
Yield  thee  the  christian-martyr's  grave, 

It  were  a  noble  doom. 

Bb 


290  THE  lJOEMS  OF 

Yet  live !  for  thou  must  errand  bring 

That  shall  the  pagan  draw 

Unto  the  new-discovered  King 

Who  gives  the  islands  law. 

Up!  seek  thee  Obookiah's  land, 
There's  toil,  and  men  are  few; 

Dispersed  is  superstition's  band, 
And  broke  the  fell  tabu. 

Away — wrung  out  is  Pe-le's  cup, 

Her  altar's  light  is  dim; 
And  where  her  song  and  shout  went  up, 

Thou'lt  hear  the  children's  hymn. 

Up  both!  and  from  this  infant  soil 
This  land,  but  late  possest, 

Go  forth  to  oriental  climes, 
The  first  fruits  of  the  West. 

Exil'd  from  us  for  Jesus'  sake, 

Ere  yet,  for  time,  ye  part, 
To  climb  the  mission-vessel,  take 

The  farewell  of  the  heart. 

Yet  how  may  she  that  farewell  give  ? 

This  hour  live  all  the  past — 
Or  he9  whose  sands  are  well  nigh  run 

Take  that  sad  look,  the  last? 

Ye  may  not  watch  her  final  pang 
Who  watched  your  boyhood's  bloom, 


WILLIAM  B.  TAPPAN.  291 

That  aged  sire — ye  may  not  lay 
His  gray  hairs  in  the  tomb. 

Enough,  enough,  a  hand  unseen, 

Waves  onward  to  the  prize; 
They  know  that  their  Kedeemer  lives, 

And  this  may  well  suffice. 

'Tis  done — in  yon  horizon  now, 

Where  she  sails  on,  a  speck; 
A  cloud  of  heaven-directed  prayer 

Is  wafted  o'er  that  deck. 

Propitious  breezes  fill  the  sails! 

O  God  of  mercy,  keep 
Yon  richly  freighted  ship  that  rides 

In  stateliness  the  deep; 

Bearing  from  hearth  and  sepulchre, 

Those  holy  names  and  high — 
The  men  that  hear  but  to  obey 

The  Macedonian  cry; 

That  calls  to  perils,  calls  afar 

To  suffering,  shame  and  loss; 
Yet  points  to  that  immortal  star, 

Which  shines  above  the  cross. 


292  THE  P0E3IS  OF 

THE  BUBMAN^  QUESTION. 

'Do  the  Disciples  in  America  drink  Spirits?'—  Wade's  Speech, 

Men,  crossing  the  blue  wave,  have  told 
To  Bnrmah  of  the  God  that  first 

Spake  out  this  starry  world  of  old, 
To  whom  the  stars  and  worlds  are  dust. 

His  voice  is  to  us — we  obey, 

Nor  fear  contempt  or  shame,  or  loss; 

Once  proudly  vile,  we  joy  to  lay 
Glory  and  pride  beneath  the  cross. 

We'll  bear  reproaches  for  His  sake, 
Who  for  poor  Burmans  died;  and  we 

Will  freely  persecution  take, 

For  Him,  whose  blood  hath  stained  the  tree. 

Yet  the  reproach  how  may  we  meet, 
That  spots  religion's  lovely  robe, 

And  lifts  an  idol  to  the  seat 

Of  Him  that  grasps  and  guides  the  globe? 

For  far  beyond  the  Indian  sea, 

Where  heaven  lets  down  unwonted  light, 
His  purchased  followers  give  the  knee 

Unto  the  spirit-fiend  of  night. 

Our  hearts  for  God! — yet  while  we  doubt 
And  fear,  like  those,  to  yield  him  up, 


WILLIAM  B.  TAPPAN.  293 

Around  us  ring-s  the  scornful  shout, 
"Do  yon  disciples  kiss  the  cup?" 

* 'Yea,  do  yon  Christians  fondly  reach 

The  goblet  to  a  sealed  lip; 
What  powerful  Boodh  durst  never  teach, 

What  Paganism  may  not  sip  ?" 

Men  of  the  clime  where  truth  has  trod, 
Earth's  glittering  falsehood  to  condemn; 

Tell  us! — seek  they  another  God, 
Is  not  Jehovah  help  to  them? 


OBEY  YOUR  PARENTS. 

The  tale  here  versified,  is  from  Mrs.  Virginia  Cary's  letters. 

Two  brothers,  once,  of  merry  mood, 
Were  sporting'  in  their  simple  play; 

When  chafed  and  furious  from  the  wood, 
A  Lion  roared  against  his  prey. 

Between  them  and  the  help  they  claimed, 

Was  interposed  a  lofty  wall; 
And  hark!  beyond  it,  each  is  named — 

It  is  the  anxious  father's  call : 

"  O,  children,  haste!  ye  shall  not  fail 
Of  safety,  with  your  sire  and  friend," 

Bb    2 


^94  THE  POEMS  OF 

"  Folly"  said  one,    "  for  us  to  scale 
Yon  stones,  which  men  can  scarce  ascend. 

"  See  you  not  that  so  rough  the  path, 
So  high  the  wall,  its  topmost  stone 

Ere  we  could  gain,  the  beast,  in  wrath 
Might  rend  and  break  us  bone  by  bone?" 

" I,"  said  the  other,    "come  what  may, 
Will  not  despise  our  father's  call; 

'Tis  safest  always  to  obey, 

I'll  strive  to  climb  yon  lofty  wall." 

He  ran,  and  saw,  when  drawing1  nigh, 
A  ladder  reaching  from  its  height; 

Safe  now,  he  turned  a  wistful  eye, 
His  mangled  brother  met  his  sight. 


EDWARD  PAYSON. 

Spihit!  arise — 'tis  blest  to  go, 
When  skiey  visions  call  away; 

Dust!  seek  the  grave — there  spices  flow, 
There  gushes  out  Redemption's  ray. 

Thou  of  the  flaming  steeds  and  car! 

We  tremble  at  our  father's  call; 
And,  weeping,  watch  his  flight  afar, 

And  see  the  ungathered  mantle  fall. 


WILLIAM  B.  TAPPAN.  295 

Weep  ye!   Oh  weep  your  leader  gone; 

Yet  mark  the  way  that  prophet  trod; 
Through  peril's  path  he  wandered  on, 

Till,  lost  to  men,  he's  found  with  God. 

What  glories  canopied  his  bed! 

What  music  lingered  on  his  ear ! 
He  saw  whose  hand  sustained  his  head, 

He  knew  the  voice  that  calmed  his  fear. 

Would'st  die  like  him? — Live  thou  the  life 

Of  holy  hope,  of  love  divine; 
And  faint  not  in  the  weary  strife, 

Thou  wilt  not,  if  his  faith  be  thine. 

Deny  me  not! — I  ask  with  awe; 

Give  me,  O  Lord,  thou  hast  the  power; 
The  bright  apocalypse  he  saw, 

In  nature's  weakest,  mightiest  hour. 


MISSIONARIES. 


Onward,  ye  men  of  prayer, 
Scatter,  in  rich  exuberance,  the  seed 
Whose  fruit  is  living  bread,  and  all  your  need 

Will  God  supply — his  harvest  ye  shall  share. 


296  THE  POEMS  OF 

To  him  child  of  the  bow, 
The  wanderer  by  his  native  Oregon, 
Tell  of  that  Jesus,  who,  in  dying*,  won 

The  peace-branch  of  the  skies — salvation  for  his 
foe. 

Unfurl  the  banneret 
On  other  shores.     Messiah's  cross  bid  shine 
O'er  every  lovely  hill  of  Palestine; 

Fair  stars  of  glory  that  shall  never  set. 

Seek  ye  the  far-off  isle; 
The  sullied  jewel  of  the  deep, 
O'er  whose  remembered  beauty  angels  weep, 

Restore  its  lustre  and  to  God  give  spoil. 

Go,  break  the  chain  of  caste; 
Go,  quench  the  funeral  pyre,  and  bid  no  more 
The  Indian  river  roll  its  waves  of  gore. 

Look  up,  thou  East,  thy  night  is  overpast. 

To  heal  the  bruised,  speed; 
Go,  pour  on  Africa  the  balm 
Of  Gilead,  and  her  agony  to  calm 

Whisper  of  fetters  broken,  and  the  spirit  freed. 

And  thou,  oh  Church,  betake 
Thyself  to  watching,  labour — help  these  men. 
God  shall  thee  visit  of  a  surety,  when 

Thou'rt    faithful — Church    that    Jesus    bought, 
awake!  awake! 


WILLI  AM  B.  TAPPAN.  297 


THE  INFANT  SCHOOL. 

The  Infant  School!  'twas  Mercy's  thought 

To  calm  religion's  direst  fear; 
And  Hope  her  brightest  visions  brought, 

And  Woman  gave  her  truest  tear: 
The  Infant  School!  away,  away 

Ambition's  dreams  of  prouder  name; 
Humanity  shall  tribute  pay 

To  toil  that  wins,  yet  asks  not  fame. 

Tie  Infant  School!  O,  true,  it  lends 

No  voice  of  high  and  daring  deed; 
Yet  whispers  it  of  home  and  friends, 

And  welcome  to  the  child  of  need; 
Of  it  the  trump  that  calls  to  death 

And  glory,  when  sad  eyes  are  dim, 
Sings  not,  yet  lives  it  in  the  breath 

Of  pure  thanksgiving's  holy  hymn. 

The  Infant  School!  who  here  shall  say 

"What  buried  worth  the  seer  hath  seen? 
What  arm,  high  destinies  to  sway, 

What  herald  of  the  Nazarene? 
O,  for  these  snatch'd  from  misery's  doom 

And  nurtured  for  their  native  sky, 
Believ'st  thou  not,  for  thee  shall  bloom 

Some  brighter  heritage  on  high? 

The  Infant  School! — then  crime  no  more 
Shall  with  cursed  fruit  my  country  chide; 


298  THE  POEMS  OF 

Nor  ignorance,  nor  sorrow  pour 
O'er  moral  wastes  the  angry  tide. 

Thou!  once  an  Infant  in  distress, 
Now  Occupant  of  David's  throne, 

Look,  and  approve  and  ever  bless 
The  godlike  labour,  'tis  thine  own. 


W.  B.  P.  OF  ENGLAND. 

What  though  across  Atlantic's  wave 
Thou  wand'redst  to  the  setting  sun; 

And  left,  to  seek  a  stranger-grave, 
The  snow-white  cliffs  of  Albion  : 

Where  our  Ohio's  silver  tide 

Tracks  the  broad  valley,  thou  as  sweet 
Shalt  rest,  as  by  the  velvet  side 

Of  Rother's  streams  where  Mersey's  meet. 

The  flower  that  springs  above  thy  tomb, 
And  dies  to  type  thee,  is  as  fair 

As  loveliest  plants  that  rise  and  bloom 
In  yonder  isle,  and  perish  there. 

What  though  stood  not  where  thou  didst  die, 
Companions  of  thy  boyhood's  band; 

The  hallowed  touch  that  closed  thine  eye, 
Was  kind — it  was  a  mother's  hand. 


WILLIAM  B.  TAPPAN.  299 

What  though  thou  fledd'st  from  paths  below, 
Where  thorns  abound,  in  trouble  trod; 

Thou  gatherest  leaves  of  healing-  now, 
And  drinkest  at  the  throne  of  God. 

Farewell !  we  give  no  pitying-  tear, 

Though  grateful  tears  have  flowed  for  llieo 

Oh  no,  thou  need'st  it  not,  who,  here 
Dyings  in  heaven  begins  to  be 


THE  CAMP  MEETING. 

Above  is  flung  the  arch  of  heaven, 

Beneath  is  spread  the  sod, 
And  from  these  thousand  hearts  is  given 

The  stirring  hymn  to  God. 

Around  his  wreathed  pillar  stayed, 
Clouds  piled  on  clouds,  lend  light; 

A  girding  wall  by  day  displayed, 
A  beacon-fire  by  night. 

This  woodland  for  his  temple  claimed, 
These  trees  of  lively  green, 

Its  columns,  which  his  fingers  framed, 
And  cast  his  light  between, 

Are  holy  :  hark,  the  sound  of  song 
Swells  up  from  tent  and  tree; 


300  THE  POEMS  OF 

'Tis  audience-hour  unto  that  throng, 
Alone  with  Deity. 

How  glorious  is  this  canopy ! 

And  gorgeous  daybreak  brings 
Its  curtains,  bathed  in  golden  dye, 

Wrought  for  the  King  of  kings. 

'Tis  seemly  with  its  regal  rays, 

Thus  to  pour  out  to  him 
Our  songs,  before  whose  throne  the  blaze 

Of  burning  noon  is  dim. 

'Tis  beautiful  in  such  a  spot, 

To  note  from  lip  of  men 
His  praise,  where  Art's  proud  dome  is  not, 

By  stream  and  wooded  glen. 

And  list,  from  yon  white  tents,  at  eve, 
Where  worshippers  are  bowed, 

The  sighs  of  those  for  sin  that  grieve, 
Among  that  waiting  crowd. 

They  rise  on  evening's  wing",  which  seems 

To  fan  a  holier  air  ; 
As  flows  from  humble  hearts,  in  streams, 

The  melody  of  prayer. 

And  One  draws  near  this  peopled  bower, 
Whose  are  these  chosen  now; 

And  walks  their  camp  at  offering-hour, 
Recording  every  vow. 


WILLIAM  B.  TAPPAN*.  301 

And  at  that  banquet  sitteth  he, 

Where  banners  twine  above; 
Men  know  their  guest,  and  long"  to  see 

More  of  his  heaven  of  love. 

If,  bright  ones!  from  your  world  of  gold, 

Ye  look  for  aught,  in  this 
Resembling  that,  this  hour  behold 

Its  counterpart  of  bliss. 

More  glorious  than  when  morning  reigns 

In  splendour  o'er  your  skies; 
More  touching-  than  when  twilight  stains 

The  clouds  with  sunset  dies : 

It  is  the  face  to  look  upon 

Of  such,  new  born  again; 
To  mark  the  glow  of  victory  won, 

The  peace  of  passions  slain. 

Expression  of  a  deep-felt  rest, 

Wearing  the  hues  of  heaven; 
It  beams  the  quiet  of  the  blessed, 

The  j  oy  of  sin  forgiven. 


302  THE  POEMS  OF 


FOR  THE  ORPHAN. 

Hast  thou  marked  the  scourge  of  God? 

Didst  thou  tremble  at  his  rod, 

When  thou  lately  saw'st  him  stand 

At  the  portals  of  our  land; 

When  he  looked  and  waved  it  here? 

Haste  to  dry  the  widow's  tear! 

Mother !  didst  thou  in  that  hour, 
Give  to  earth  its  fairest  flower? 
'Twas  in  anguish — He  hath  given 
For  thy  bruise,  the  balm  of  heaven; 
Thou  art  comforted — go,  bless 
In  its  woes,  the  motherless. 

Did  the  Angel  hush  his  wrath, 
As  he  crossed  thy  midnight  path? 
Then,  when  thousands  rose  to  shed 
Bitter  tears  upon  their  dead, 
While  without,  was  heard  the  cry, 
None  thou  lovest  sealed  to  die? 

Has  thy  lip  been  spared  the  cup? 
These  have  drank  the  mixture  up; 
These  were  basking  yesterday 
In  a  kinder  sun — as  they 
Sit  beneath  dark  shadows  now, 
Sister!  brother!  so  mayst  thou. 

Haste  with  offerings,  large  and  free, 
Wings  of  mercy  sheltered  thee; 


WILLIAM  B.  TAPPAN.  303 

Mercy's  sacrifices  bring, 
Cause  the  weeper's  heart  to  sing; 
Heard  above  is  blessing-prayer, 
Grief  and  Want  have  power  there. 

What  are  pearls  of  brightest  hue, 
Diamonds,  like  the  drops  of  dew, 
In  the  loveliest  tresses  glowing, 
Nature's  fainter  beauties  showing, 
To  the  gem  of  splendour  here, 
Gratitude's  impressive  tear? 


THE  SAILOR  AS  HE  WAS AS  HE  IS. 

The  sport  of  yon  deceitful  wave, 
He  toiled  where  dangers  oft  appear; 
And  careless  trod  the  billowy  grave, 
Stranger  to  thought  or  fear. 

Unknown  the  power  that  stayed  his  youth, 
The  God  that  holds  the  sea  unknown — 
On  his  dark  soul  no  ray  of  truth 
With  kindly  impulse  shone. 

Fierce,  the  careering  midnight  storm 
In  anger  mingled  wave  and  sky; 
WThile  the  red  lightning  scathed  his  form, 
His  curse  was  heard  on  high. 


304  THE  POEMS  OF 

The  thunders  shook  the  reeling  mast, 
The  vessel  rent  by  every  sea — 
No  tear  was  given  to  the  past, 
Nor  to  futurity. 

Then  burst  the  cry  of  agony, 
Then  quailed  the  stoutest  on  that  deck; 
The  toiling  barque  hath  climbed  on  high, 
To  plunge,  a  buried  wreck. 

No  prayer  was  wafted  to  the  throne — 
Could  the  profane,  the  scoffer  pray? 
No!  wretched,  trembling  and  alone, 
His  spirit  fled  away. 

Weep,  Sailor!  for  thy  comrade  weep, 
For  he  was  noble,  generous,  free; 
Yet  passed  he  in  transgression  deep, 
To  his  eternity. 

Oh,  had  he  scanned  the  living  chart, 
By  which  the  unerring  course  is  laid, 
His  vision  purged,  made  clean  in  heart, 
The  wanderer  ne'er  had  strayed. 

Weep  for  the  dead!  yet  with  thy  tears 
Blend  earnest  love  for  grace  divine; 
Sailor!  a  happier  dawn  appears — 
Hope's  beaming  star  is  thine. 

The  Man  of  Nazareth  calls  to  thee, 
He  bids  thy  toils  and  sorrows  cease; 
The  voice  that  calmed  proud  Galilee, 
Speaks  to  the  weary,  Peace. 


WILLIAM   B.  TAPPAN.  305 

And  He — or  be  thy  peaceful  way 
The  dark  blue  wave,  or  when  afar, 
By  gathering"  perils  led  astray, 
Will  be  thy  Morning1  Star. 

Safe  in  the  tempest  as  the  calm, 
Art  thou  that  seekest  the  mercy  seat; 
Sailor!  rejoice,  death  boasts  a  charm, 
Leading  to  Jesus'  feet. 


THY  WANDERING  BOY. 

Has  he  thy  tireless  love  forg*ot? 

Thy  early  anxious  care — 
Are  thy  gray  hairs  remembered  not* 

To  prayer,  then,  sire! — to  prayer! 
For  if  thy  boy  has  turned  aside 

And  chosen  folly's  way, 
And  for  thy  tears  with  scoffs  replied, 

What  can'st  thou  do  but  pray > 

Is  he  a  wanderer  from  thy  dome 

On  the  world's  tossing"  sea; 
Where  dreaming-  not  of  heaven  or  home 

Thy  son  is  lost  to  thee  ? 
Still,  as  sad  rumor  to  thy  ear 

Tells  heavily,  how  frail  thy  stay, 
To  Him  who  bottles  every  tear, 

Go,  stricken  man,  and  pray, 
c  c  2 


306  THE  POEMS  OF 

Perhaps  upon  the  bed  of  pain, 

Away  he  lies  a  victim  now; 
And  seeks  a  father's  hand  in  vain, 

Whose  touch  might  cool  his  burning*  brow; 
"While  thinking  of  the  holy  joy 

Thou  knew'st,  e'er  sin  knew  to  betray, 
For  him,  that  lovely,  ruined  boy, 

Do  thou  in  earnest,  pray. 

By  the  bright  spring  of  childhood's  love, 

That  in  his  countenance  once  shone; 
The  eyes  where  meekness  like  a  dove 

Sat  once — the  brow,  contentment's  throne : 
The  beauty  that  unto  thy  heart 

Appeals  with  power  of  boyhood's  day, 
Go,  aged  father!  weep  apart 

And  trembling,  hoping,  pray. 

And  if,  for  thee,  there  linger  yet 

The  dregs  of  this  world's  bitterest  cup, 
The  God  thou  servest,  will  not  forget 

To  give  thee  grace  to  drink  it  up; 
Yet  no!  not  thus  will  prayer  be  lost, 

Thou  yet  shalt  bless  that  castaway, 
And  see  for  him  the  folly-tost, 

The  penitent,  'twas  good  to  pray. 


WILLIAM  B.  TAFPAN.  307 


THE  CROSS. 

Symbol  of  shame — mysterious  sign 
Of  groans,  and  agonies  and  blood, 
Hail,  pledge  of  love  and  peace  divine 
From  God. 

Symbol  of  hope  to  those  that  stray, — 

The  pilgrim's  step  is  led  to  thee  ; 
Star  of  the  soul  thou  guid'st  the  way 
To  Calvary. 

Symbol  of  tears — I  look,  and  mourn 

His  woes,  whose  soul  for  mine  was  riven; 
Where,  wanderer,  is  thy  due  return 
To  heaven } 

Symbol  of  empire — thou  shalt  rise 

And  shine,  where  lands  in  darkness  sit, 
On  Indian  domes  that  greet  the  skies 
And  minaret. 

Symbol  of  glory — when  no  more 

The  monarch  seeks  a  fleeting  throne, 
Thy  victim  once,  shall  worlds  adore 
The  God  alone. 


308 


THE  POEMS  OF 


CHILDREN  S  WORSHIP. 

FIRST  VOICE. 

O,  tell  me,  while  the  blessed  ones 

Their  wings  in  worship  fold; 

Discoursing  words  of  melody 

To  instruments  of  gold; 

While  thousand  thousands  pass  the  praise, 

Where  kneeling  ranks  are  seen; 

And  voices,  as  the  talk  of  seas, 

Are  heard  the  songs  between; 

Why  should  the  Saviour  turn  aside 

From  notes  that  ravish  so, 

And  hearken,  while  inferior  chords 

Sound  up  from  earth  below5 

SECOND  VOICE. 

Once,  unto  Him  in  Palestine, 

Was  sung  an  infant  hymn; 

When  children  of  Jerusalem 

Abashed  the  Sanhedrim; 

And  own'd  the  lowly  Teacher,  who 

Incarnate,  was  from  high; 

Whom  Jewish  men  nailed  up  in  scorn, 

With  murderers  to  die. 


Now,  Lord  of  all,  unto  his  ear 
Well  pleasing  is  the  song, 
That  rises  with  the  Sabbath  sun, 
From  childhood's  happy  throng; 


WILLIAM  B.  TAPPAX.  309 

For  he  that  spans  the  rolling"  worlds, 
And  marks  the  seraph's  way, 
Never  disdains  when  infant  years 
His  perfect  will  obey. 

But  kindly  through  disparting*  skies 
His  shining*  way  he  rends, 
To  hear  the  early  hymn  that  with 
His  upper  music  blends; 
Descending*  to  the  lowly  praise 
That  breathes  from  lips  of  love, 
Unmindful  of  the  song*  that  breaks 
Around  his  throne  above. 

FIRST  AND  SECOND  VOICES. 

Then  while  in  blessedness  we  walk 

Where  angels  never  trod, 

We'll  give,  with  holy  cheerfulness, 

The  humble  heart  to  God; 

On  this  the  Saviour  looketh  down 

From  place  of  cherubim, 

And  for  this  worship  leaves  awhile 

The  everlasting  hymn. 


310  THE  POEMS  OF 


PILGEI3IAGE  OF  THE  DEAD. 

A  rich  Jewess,  who  lately  died  in  London,  directed  by  her  will 
that  her  body  should  be  taken  to  Jerusalem  by  twelve  of  her 
friends,  (Jews,)  to  whom  she  left  400/.  each,  for  their  trouble. 

Up,  and  away  for  Palestine, 

Away,  and  with  the  dead  embark; 
That  soil  I  covet  to  be  mine, 

Where  slumber  Seer  and  Patriarch. 
Away,  away,  my  pilgrim  feet 

Have  long"  in  weary  sojourn  trod; 
In  thee  I  seek  a  last  retreat, 

Clime  where  my  fathers  worshipped  God! 

O  land  of  beauty,  desolate, 

Who  now  to  trump  and  song  shall  tell 
Thy  triumphs,  for  the  scornful  hate 

And  smite  thee,  hapless  Israel! 
And  God  hath  hid  his  face  from  thee; 

Thy  God,  whose  pillar  led  thee  on, 
Heeds  not  where  base  ones  bow  the  knee 

In  mockery  of  the  Holy  One. 

And  who  unto  thy  hill  shall  roam  ? 

Alas!  no  glory  beckons  there; 
Where  thy  first  temple  heaved  its  dome, 

The  haughty  Islam  calls  to  prayer. 
O  royal  Salem!   David's  seat, 

The  queen  of  cities  sattest  thou, 
When  humbled  nations  at  thy  feet 

Laid  gorgeous  spoil — what  art  thou  now! 


WILLIA3I  B.  TAPPAN.  311 

Yet  dearer  is  Jerusalem 

Though  trodden  as  the  olive  wild, 
Of  cities,  than  their  proudest  gem, 

Unto  her  stricken  weeping  child; 
Away !   too  long  the  wanderer 

Hath  tented  with  the  gentile  band; 
Ye  palms  of  Judah!   shelter  her, 

Receive  her  ashes,  native  land. 


JOSEPH  EASTBURX, 

LATE  PASTOR  OP  THE  XARIXERS'  CHURCH. 

Quietly  lay  him  in  his  narrow  bed, 

"Where  flesh  may  slumber.   Grave !  yield  thy  repose 

Unto  the  patriarch,  whose  aged  bones 

Thou  wilt  not  long  possess;  for  well  he  knew 

That  his  Redeemer  liveth.     Dust  to  dust 

Is  given  now.     The  spirit  hath  sought  out 

A  fairer  region,  and  joins  minstrelsy 

In  lofty  worship  with  the  Elders'  hymn. 

Yes,  thou  may'st  weep,  for  silent  is  the  voice 
That  warned  thee,  Sailor!  in  much  faithfulness, 
Of  fatal  shipwreck,  and  the  mocking  billow 
That  rolls  in  beauty  o'er  dark  sepulchres. 
Yes,  thou  may'st  weep;  ever  are  hush'd  the  tones 
That  in  paternal  fondness  unto  thee 


312  THE  POEMS  OF 

Spake  of  Salvation;  teaching"  thee,  sad  child 
Of  peril,  from  thy  waves  and  storms  to  look 
Where  trembleth  out  upon  faith's  horizon 
Beautifully  and  bright,  the  Star  of  Bethlehem. 

Thou  wilt  remember  him,  when  on  the  deep 
Thou'rt  rocked;  and  by  thy  hammock  will  his  form 
Flit  in  fair  dreams.    Thou  'It  see  him  in  the  storm, 
When  memory  whispers  of  the  covenant 
Made  between  heaven  and  thee,  and  solemn  hours 
Will  pass  before  thee,  even  those  thou  knewest 
In  yonder  Bethel,  where  before  the  throne 
Thou  gavest  thyself  in  tears  to  God  alone. 

Yes,  thou  may'st  weep;  I  saw  thy  manly  tear 

Drop  on  his  clay,  and  as  thy  trembling  hand 

Parted  with  reverend  awe,  the  few  white  hairs 

That  lingered  on  his  forehead,  well  I  knew 

The  agony  was  big  that  heaved  thy  breast. 

Thou  lovedst  the  good  old  man — wilt  thou  not  strive 

To  follow  him?     O,  by  thy  soul's  worth  shun 

The  rocks  that  cluster  on  Temptation's  coast. 

He  whom  thou  mournest,  wanderer!  beckons  thee 

From  these  dark  waters  to  the  starry  shores 

Of  immortality,  whereon  Ms  feet 

Now  stand  in  holiness.  Seek  thou  to  meet  him  there ! 

O,  could'st  thou,  mariner,  the  curtain  rend, 

That  shuts  out  now  thy  father;  for  brief  space 

Grasp  heaven,  Earth's    gayest   laugh  would  ring 

but  dim, 
As  on  thy  charmed  ear  brake  his  rejoicing  hymn. 


WILLI  AJVI  JB.  TAFPAN.  313 


WHO  IS  MY  NEIGHBOUR? 

Not  he  that  basks  in  fortune's  ray, 

Of  proud  unfeeling  soul; 
Not  he  whom  sycophants  obey, 

Who  rules  with  wide  control : 

Not  he  that  seeks  my  open  door, 

"With  fair  profession  free; 
Not  he  that  takes  my  daily  store, 

And  shares  his  mite  with  me: 

Not  he  that  with  the  name  of  friend 

Is  prompt  at  every  need; 
Not  he  that  kindness  doth  intend, 

Yet  falters  in  the  deed: 

Not  he,  though  prized,  for  whom  the  sweets 

Of  fellowship,  are  known; 
Not  he  for  whom  this  bosom  beats, 

Who  calls  its  love  his  own. 

But  he,  whose  miseries  proclaim 

That  nought  but  tears  are  his; 
He,  he  alone  can  boast  the  name, 

And  he  my  Neighbour  is. 

Dd 


314  THE  P0E3IS  OF 


TRIBUTARY. 


'Tis  past!  the  voyage  of  life  is  o'er, 
The  wanderer  hails  another  clime; 
On  perils  borne  to  yonder  shore, 
He  views  afar  the  waves  of  time; 
The  storm  that  muttered  o'er  his  head 
The  flame  that  quivered  round  his  path 
Are  sweetly  hushed,  the  cloud  hath  fled, 
And  gone  the  angry  lightning's  scathe. 

'Tis  past!  and  grief  is  changed  to  songs 
That  angel  cordons  love  to  hear; 
The  harp  that  to  delight  belongs, 
In  softest  murmur  soothes  his  ear; 
The  secret  sigh  that  rent  his  breast, 
Now  breathes  of  balmy  peace  alone; 
The  tear  that  told  the  heart  opprest, 
Is  gemmed  around  the  eternal  throne. 

Blest  voyager!  how  happy  thou, 
Safe  moored  within  the  port  of  peace; 
Once  heir  of  death — immortal  now, 
Of  pain — thy  toils  forever  cease; 
O  may  I  too,  thus  sweetly  rise, 
Thus  tread  yon  bright  empyrion  free; 
"With  joy  regain  those  native  skies, 
Secure  at  last,  in  love  like  thee. 


WILLIAM  B.  TAPPAX,  315 


FEAST  OF  THE  DEAD. 

Ontario  !  thy  billow  hath  sunk  to  its  rest, 
The  mantle  of  twilight  envelopes  thy  wave; 
On  the  forest  of  pines  sleeps  the  gleam  of  the  west, 
And  the  breeze  of  the  mountain  hath  fled  to  its  cave. 

Near  yon  beetling  rock,  see  the  tall  Indian  glide! 
His  barque  cleaves  the  flood  with  the  speed  of  the  foe ; 
The  warrior  is  there — but  no  spear  decks  his  side; 
The  hatchet  is  buried,  unbent  is  the  bow. 

Hark!  hark — 'tis  the  death-song  that  swells  on  the 

gale, 
All  wild  is  the  cadence,  and  mournful  the  strain; 
'Tis  the  war-whoop  that  bids  the  dark  foeman  assail, 
'Tis  the  cry  whose  dread  signal  hath  crimsoned  the 

plain. 

O  say  what  red  ruin  illumines  the  gloam, 

What  foes  skulk  in  ambush,  or  rush  to  the  deed? 

What  youth  scalped  in  slaughter,  what  captive  shall 

roam, 
What  chief,  cruel  fate,  in  the  wigwam  shall  bleed  ■ 

No  red  ruin  tells  that  the  foeman  is  nigh, 
No  whiteman  shall  languish  a  captive  afar, 
The  chieftain  at  midnight  hath  uttered  the  cry, 
The  death-song  is  echoed,  but  hushed  is  the  war. 

'Tis  the  Feast  of  the  Dead — see!  in  yon  lonely  isle, 
The  Iroquois  weep  o'er  the  bones  of  the  slain; 


316  THE  POEMS  OF 

The  remnants  of  valour,  the  war-trophied  spoil 
Are  gathered  afar,  from  the  valley  and  plain. 

They  weep,  as  the  relics  of  time  and  the  gTave, 
All  hideous,  and  mournful,  the  night-fires  disclose; 
They  hymn  the  exploits  of  the  W'erowance  brave; 
They  howl  the  sad  requiem  of  lasting*  repose! 

The  dawn  is  advancing,   all  hushed  is  the  cry; 
The  souls,  long  departed,  flee  lonely  and  far; 
Nought  is  heard  but  the  billow  responding  its  sigh, 
Nought  is  seen  but  the  twinkling  of  night's  fading 
star. 


G W ,  OF  THE  UNITED  STATES     FKI- 

GATE  CONSTITUTION. 

Farewell!  and  if  the  frequent  tear 
Of  those,  once  loved,  be  for  thee  shed, 
Although  it  wets  no  costly  bier, 
Nor  gems  the  gorgeous  marbled  bed — 

Spirit!  it  consecrates  the  tomb, 
Where  youth's  fair  buds  of  promise  lie ; 
Nourished  by  this,  in  beauteous  bloom 
The  floweret  lives,  no  more  to  die. 

Farewell!  and  if  the  sigh  be  given 
For  hopes,  that  early  sank  to  rest, 
Though  borne  not  by  the  winds  of  heaven 
To  him,  whose  couch  is  ocean's  breast, 


WILLIAM   B.  TAPPAX.  317 

Spirit!  that  bosom-sigh  hath  flown 
In  meekness,  on  the  wing's  of  prayer: 
Wafted  to  yonder  sapphire  throne, 
It  finds  for  thee  acceptance  there. 

We  saw  thee  not,  though  thine  was  pain; 
We  knew  not  ill,  though  thou  hadst  fled; 
We  smiled  to  meet  thee  here  again, 
And  fondly  dreamed — when  thou  wast  dead. 

Thou  livest! — we  will  not,  cannot  grieve, 
Hope  shows  thee  to  our  longing"  sight, 
For,  taught  by  thee,  we  gladly  leave 
These  stormy  seas  for  shores  of  light. 


LAUNCH  OF  THE  NORTH  CAROLINA  74,  AT  PHI- 
LADELPHIA, IS'20. 

North  Carolina!   peerless  queen, 
Our  infant  navy's  pride, 
Thou  proudly  rid'st  in  lofty  mien 
Along  the  swelling  tide. 

I  saw  thee,  gaily,  quit  thy  bed, 
And  plough  the  yielding  foam; 
Full  gallantly,  the  Ship  of  Dread 
Descended  to  her  home. 

Columbia's  sons  begirt  the  strand, 
Her  youth  and  manhood's  flower: 

Dd2 


318  THE  POEMS  OF 

Her  daughters,  too,  a  beauteous  band, 
Lent  lustre  to  the  hour. 

And  kindling  was  the  bosom's  glow- 
That  hailed  thy  brilliant  name ; 
A  terror  to  the  daring  foe, 
A  pledge  of  glorious  fame. 

Long  may  thy  flag  protect  the  Free; 
Long  may'st  thou  walk  the  wave; 
Thy  deck  the  home  of  victory, 
Or  valour's  gory  grave. 

Though  Albion's  cross  a  thousand  years 
Has  floated  on  the  breeze, 
Thy  Union  Star  to-day  appears, 
The  beacon  of  the  seas! 

And  broad  shall  wave  that  deathless  sign 
O'er  Liberty's  proud  steep; 
And  bright  that  starry  gem  shall  shine 
Along  thy  native  deep. 


THE  HEAVENS  WERE  STILL. 

The  heavens  were  still.     High  on  his  ebon  car 
Night  rode  sublimely. — Earth  its  vigils  kept, 
And  nought  looked  out  on  Midnight's  holy  hour, 
Save  her  pale  tenant,  the  sweet  vestal  star, 


WILLIAM  B.  TAPPAN.  319 

That,  twinkling  in  its  solitary  bower, 

Seemed,   lovely  portress,   watching*  while  men 
slept. 

In  safety  sleep  they?  mark  yon  curling  flame, 
Whose  tow'ring  columns,  wreathing  with  the  sky, 
Tell  of  destruction's  triumph.     Hear  that  cry ! 
Witness  that  burst  of  anguish!  these  proclaim 

Thy  horrors,  Desolation!   See,  the  foe 
Exultingly  comes  on;  the  work  of  art, 
The  costly  pile,  the  curious  and  the  rare, 

Now  sate  his  horrid  gorge.    The  shriek  of  wo, 
The  furious  shout,  the  sigh  deep  from  the  heart 
Are  heard. — The  throb  of  agony  is  there. 
Yea,*  he  hath  fled — saw'st  thou  the  mounting  spire 
Of  billowy  flame  ?  Even  on  that  sea  of  fire 
His  barque  was  wafted  to  the  port  of  peace. 

Spirit!  we  weep,  yet  weep  not  thy  release 

From  toil  and  suffering.   Thine  it  was  to  know 
The  interchange,  whose  high  communion,  sweet, 

Partakes  of  heaven. — Can  worlds  such  peace  be- 
stow ? 
The  garment  of  thy  heaviness  is  now 

Changed  to  the  robe  immortal  hands  have  wrought. 
Joy,  like  a  cherub,  sits  upon  thy  brow, — 

The  pearl  is  thine,  of  price  unknown,  unbought, 
And  he  that  wept  below  now  sits  at  Jesus'  feet. 

*  Founded  on  fact. 


320  THE  POEMS  OF 


SPAIN. 

WRITTEN     IN     ANTICIPATION     OF     THE     INVASION     OF 
SPAIN,    BY  THE  ARMIES  OF  LOUIS  XVIII.  IN  1823. 

Yes  !  march  ye  forces,  in  array, 

Yon  peaceful  state  invade; 
Pounce,  eager  falcons,  on  your  prey, 

Draw  forth  the  unrighteous  blade ! 

Go,  Autocrat!  thou  foe  to  man, 

Go  bind  the  free-born  soul! 
And  ye  base  kings,  that  dare  not  scan 

His  vengeance,  bid  it  roll. 

Yet  know,  the  desolating  tide 

Ye  impious,  loose  again, 
Back  shall  recoil,  to  whelm  your  pride, 

From  free,  unconquered  Spain. 

Go  forth,  ye  slaves !  although  the  light 

Of  victory  gilds  your  plume, 
That  ray  shall  shroud  in  fearful  night, 

Those  laurels  deck  the  tomb. 

Enters  within  God's  canopy, 

In  mockery  to  the  throne, 
One  hireling  prayer  of  slavery  ? 

It  enters  not  alone. 

Ten  thousand,  thousand,  as  one  heart, 
Spain!  lift  the  prayer  for  thee; 


WILLIAM  B.  TAPPAN.  321 

Ten  thousand  thousand  swords  will  start 
For  Spain  and  Liberty! 

Hear  ye  not  voices?  'tis  the  shout 

That,  kindling-,  swells  on  high; 
See  ye  not  light?  those  brands  are  out, 

They  flash  upon  the  sky. 

Sooner  those  tongues  shall  writhe  in  gore, 
Those  swords  be  drunk  with  blood, 

Than  Spain  prove  false  to  days  of  yore, 
False  to  herself  and  God. 

Then  onward,  onward,  vaunting  band! 

Rear  Slavery's  symbol  high; 
Yet  halt,  proud  legions!  Freedom's  land 

Is  holy — touch  and  die. 


TO  THE  SURVIVING  DEFENDERS    OF  THE  CASTLE 
OF  ST.  JUAN  DE  ULUA. 

Men  of  the  hostile  ground! 

From  yonder  field  shall  spring 
A  greener  leaf  than  the  victor  wears, 

Plucked  for  a  tyrant  king. 

Though  your  blood  ran  rivers  there, 

Each  drop  is  a  costlier  gem, 
Than  the  priceless  pearl  that  proudly  shines 

In  Ferdinand's  diadem. 


322  THE  P0E3IS  OF 

The  trumpet  calls  to  war! 

And  the  true  and  tried  obey; 
And  the  sons  of  Freedom  hasten  forth, 

In  their  bright  and  bold  array — 

'Tis  glorious  when  they  draw 

The  sword  with  unfaltering-  hand; 

'Tis  godlike  when  they  rush  to  death, 
A  heaven-devoted  band. 

They  go,  for  a  nation's  gratitude 

Awaits  the  victor  brave; 
They  go,  for  the  tears  of  woman  wet 

The  faithful  soldier's  grave. 

But  ye  have  given  your  lives 

For  nought,  ye  valiant  dead! 
And  ye  that  rushed  to  the  bootless  strife, 

By  a  phantom  were  ye  led. 

For  the  tyrant's  heart  is  cold, 

'Tis  shut  to  fame  forever; 
It  may  rouse  to  hate  and  festering  pride, 

But  to  gratitude,  honour — never.' 

All  is  not  lost,  ye  brave ! 

Your  swords  reflect  no  stain; 
Though  yon  leaguered  walls,  of  all  your  host 

Frown  only  on  your  slain. — 

The  craven  king  shall  hear — 

Why  waxes  his  cheek  pale' 
Tidings,  that  Spanish  men  are  found, 

Whose  hearts  can  never  fail. 


WILLIAM  B.  TAPPAN.  323 

All  is  not  lost,  ye  brave ! 

Ye  have  bled — what  could  ye  more  ? 
Yet  Liberty's  banner  wantons  now 

Where  Slavery's  drooped  before! 


Away,  away  through  trackless  space, 

The  disembodied  soul  shall  fly; 
Of  all  once  known  and  loved,  no  trace 

Shall  greet  her  passage  in  the  sky; 
The  dust  remains,  the  beauteous  form 

Changed  to  a  tenement  of  clay, 
And  all  the  graces  that  could  warm 

The  answering  bosom,  passed  away. 

Thus  shall  this  spirit  hover  soon, 

Impatient,  quit  its  narrow  sphere, 
Earth,  yielded  for  a  brighter  boon, 

Shall  not  detain  the  wanderer  here ; 
O,  then  I'll  ask  a  swifter  wing 

To  waft  me  from  this  thorny  wild 
To  fields,  whose  living  flow'rets  bring 

Their  gilead  to  misfortune's  child. 

Yet,  would  I  not  at  once  forsake, 

Methinks,  the  heart  I  vowed  to  love — 
O,  no !  I  would  not  wholly  break 

The  ties  below,  confirmed  above: 
But  when  around  the  sapphire  throne, 

Glows  the  wrapt  thrill  of  holy  birth, 
Heaven  will  forgive  the  impulse,  flown 

To  meet  its  kindred  throb  of  earth. 


324  THE  POEMS  OF 


THE  BEARING  OF  THE  CROSS. 

And  after  they  had  mocked  him,  they  took  the  robe  off  from 
him,  and  put  his  own  raiment  on  him; — and  he  bearing  his  cross, 
went  forth.— Evangelist. 

Curses  rang"  loud  as  they  his  thrall 

Beheld,  and  proud  lips  curled, 
When  bowed  within  that  marble  hall, 

The  Saviour  of  the  world; 
When  the  fell  glance  of  hell  he  met 

With  unreproving  eye; 
And  for  reproach,  implored  yet, 

Forgiveness  from  on  high. 

More  to  be  worshipped  in  his  grief 

And  meekness,  there  alone, 
On  that  stern  floor,  than  loftiest  chief 

That  reared  or  razed  a  throne; 
More  to  be  loved,  the  Sinless  then 

In  his  agony  and  cries, 
Bruised  by  the  Father's  hand,  than  when 

He  curtained  out  the  skies. 

Not  in  the  scoff  and  maddening  shout, 

The  cup — it  was  not  there ; 
But  in  the  wrath  that  hung  about, 

And  the  silence  for  his  prayer; 
Oh!  when  he  sank  'twas  not  the  tree 

That  crush' d  the  God  within; 
But  the  withering  frown  of  Deity, 

The  malison  for  sin. 


WILLIAM  B.  TAPPAN.  325 


THE  RANSOMED  SPIRIT  TO  HER  HOME. 

The  ransomed  spirit  to  her  home, 
The  clime  of  cloudless  beauty,  flies; 
No  more  on  stormy  seas  to  roam, 
She  hails  her  haven  in  the  skies: 
But  cheerless  are  those  heavenly  fields, 
The  cloudless  clime  no  pleasure  yields, 
There  is  no  bliss  in  bowers  above, 
If  thou  art  absent,  Holy  Love ! 

The  cherub  near  the  viewless  throne 
Hath  smote  the  harp  with  trembling'  hand; 
A.nd  One  with  incense-fire  hath  flown 
To  touch  with  flame  the  angel-band; 
But  tuneless  is  the  quiv'ring  string, 
No  melody  can  Gabriel  bring, 
Mute  are  its  arches,  when  above 
The  harps  of  heaven  wake  not  to  Love ! 

Earth,  sea,  and  sky  one  language  speak, 
In  harmony  that  soothes  the  soul; 
'Tis  heard  when  scarce  the  zephyrs  wake, 
And  when  on  thunders  thunders  roll : 
That  voice  is  heard  and  tumults  cease, 
It  whispers  to  the  bosom  peace, 
Speak,  thou  Inspirer,  from  above 
And  cheer  our  hearts,  Celestial  Love! 


326  THE  POEMS  OF 


UNHOLY  THOUGHTS. 

If,  o'er  the  heart,  in  Prayer's  still  hour, 
— The  holiest  hour  that  earth  can  know, — 
But  one  unbidden  thought  hath  power 
Its  blighting*  influence  to  throw: 
How  quickly,  all  enjoyment  gone, 
The  Spirit  spreads  his  pinions  then; 
The  bosom  left  of  God  alone — 
When  will  the  vision  smile  again  ? 

While  Inspiration,  sacred  joy 
Pours  through  the  eye  upon  the  heart; 
Should  thoughts  that  quicken  to  destroy, 
Enter,  and  bid  the  bliss  depart, — 
Sealed  then,  is  the  life  -giving  Word, 
Its  thunders  and  its  mercy-tone ; 
Stern  Justice  waves  a  dreadless  sword, 
And  harder  is  the  heart  of  stone. 

When  to  the  Paschal-feast  I  go 

With  Him,  who  bore  the  cross  and  curse; 

And  wish,  as  heaven  seems  bent  below, 

It  might  be  ever  with  me  thus: 

How  soon,  by  guilty  thoughts,  the  tear 

Of  blessedness,  is  turned  to  pain; 

For  humble  hope  my  soul  hath  fear, 

The  sin  revives  that  once  was  slain. 

How  high  and  holy  the  delight, 

— By  God  bestowed,  by  heaven  possessed,— 


WILLIAM  B.    TAPPAN.  327 

That  glows  and  burns  from  thrones  of  light, 
From  rank  to  rank,  throughout  the  blessed; 
Yet  should  an  angel-bosom  own 
One  thought  of  guilt,  no  voice  may  tell 
What  furies  there  might  fix  a  throne, 
That  bosom,  how  'twould  teem  with  hell. 

Whether  to  thee,  my  God,  I  kneel, 

Or  in  thy  Bible  seek  thee  out; 

Or,  trembling,  touch  the  cov'nant  seal, 

O,  Wing  of  Love!  shield  me  about: 

And  aid  my  spirit — break  the  thrall 

Of  guilty  thoughts,  and  set  her  free ; 

That,  purely,  I  may  offer  all 

To  him,  who  rendered  all  for  me. 


IDOLS  REJECTED. 

She  listen'd  to  the  appeal 

For  heathen  far  away; 
I  saw  the  tear  of  pity  fall, 

And  heard  the  beauty  say: 

O  God!  these  glittering  toys, 

Unreal  as  they  be — 
Have  to  my  erring  eyes  outshone 

The  light  that  beams  from  thee. 

This  chain  of  virgin  gold — 
Gift  of  mv  mother's  love — 


328  THE  POEMS  OF 

Has  linked  unto  the  world  below 
Thoughts  due  to  worlds  above. 

This  coronal  of  pearls 

That  wantons  on  my  brow, 

I  hate  it,  for  the  pagan's  tear 
Blots  out  its  lustre  now. 

The  sparkling*  diamond,  more 
This  bosom  shall  not  wear; 

Its  rays  would  beacon  to  the  world 
The  folly  hidden  there. 

Nor  shall  my  heart  refuse 
Earth's  baubles  to  resign; 

Is  not  salvation's  priceless  pearl, 
The  gem  of  heaven,  mine  ? 

Thus  on  the  altar  laid, 
This  sacrifice  shall  burn 

In  purifying  flame,  from  which 
No  idol  shall  return. 


WHAT  IS  DEATH  ? 

I  ask'd  the  laughing  bright-haired  boy, 
As  he  bounded  on  in  his  innocent  joy;— 
His  eye  with  accustomed  lustre  shone, 
To  him  it  was  a  word  unknown. 


WILLIAM   B.  TAPPAN.  329 

I  asked  the  fair  as  she  flew  along 
The  mazy  dance,  to  the  sound  of  song; 
She  paused  not  on  her  giddy  way, 
She  answered  not,  but  turned  away. 

I  asked  the  man  of  silvery  hairs, 
As  he  tottered  on  with  years  and  cares; 
He  shook  his  head  and  was  eager  yet 
To  bear  that  load  and  Death  forget. 

The  toning  fool,  as  he  passed  by 

"With  hurried  step  and  anxious  eye, 

I  asked  next,  and  heard  a  groan 

From  his  hoarded  heaps,  but  of  answer,  none. 

I  bent  me  o'er  the  bed  of  death, 
And  asked  as  I  watched  the  passing  breath; — 
But  by  the  foe  that  heart  was  crushed, 
The  voice  of  reply  was  forever  hushed. 

I  searched  amid  the  place  of  tombs, 
And  fearfully  asked  of  its  silent  glooms : 
Surely,  surely,  ye  can  tell, 
None  are  so  drear,  none  know  so  well. 

O,  tell  me  sepulchres!  I  said, 

And  Echo  answered  from  the  dead; 

I  only  heard  among  the  trees 

By  the  hollow  graves,  the  moaning  breeze. 

In  tears  I  sought  the  Bible  then, 
And  saw,  writ  by  Jehovah's  pen; 
To  the  wicked  'tis  undying  pain, 
To  the  righteous  'tis  eternal  gain. 
ze2 


330  THE  POEMS  OF 


TWAS  DEITY  THAT  DIED. 

If  He  that  in  the  manger  slept, 

When  visions  broke  on  Beth'lem's  plain ; 

Whose  voice  spake  balm  to  those  that  wept, 

And  silence  to  the  surging*  main — 

If  that  meek  one,  who,  to  fulfil 

All  prophecy,  the  winepress  trod, 

And  bore  up  Calvary's  weary  hill 

The  cross,  and  died,  was  not  the  God — 

Why  should  I,  while  these  life-storms  beat, 

Aid  of  his  finite  arm  implore, 

Or  when  joy  revels  round  my  feet, 

For  this  the  Nazarene  adore  ? 

And  why,  in  shuddering*  nature's  hour 

Invoke  him  to  receive  my  breath; 

Or  ask  his  shielding*  wing*  of  power 

To  guard  the  slumberer  in  death? 

O  thou! — when  thou  didst  lay  the  beams 
Of  thy  broad  chambers,  and  from  far 
Didst  call  thy  worlds  and  break  the  dreams 
That  long  had  held  the  morning  star — 
Dwelt  not  with  Thee  thy  equal  Son 
Who  made  his  couch  among  the  dead; 
And  rising  thence — the  victory  won, 
Poured  aroma  upon  that  bed? 

O  did  no  portent  speak  from  high, 
To  Jew  and  Roman  when  he  fell; 


WILLIAM  B.  TAPPAN.  331 

The  darkness,  earthquake  and  the  cry, 
Messiah's  true  descent  to  tell — 
Yet  would  my  heart  rej  oice  to  own 
Unto  that  seat  his  rightful  claim; 
I  know  it,  bending-  at  the  throne, 
I  weep  and  find  it  in  his  name. 


UNION NULLIFICATION. 

They  spake  of  Union — and  the  words 
Recording  angels  wrote  on  high: 
They  asked  a  pledge — and  leaping  swords 
Flashed  out  upon  the  troubled  sky. 

God  of  our  patriot  fathers !  when 
Invading  footsteps  vexed  their  coasts, 
And  banners  of  those  unmoved  men 
Waved  glory  o'er  the  smitten  hosts. — 

Why  heap'd  they  monumental  stones, 
Which  trembling  kings  in  vain  forbid; 
And  freely  laid  their  martyr  bones 
Beneath  the  rising  pyramid? 

And  why  doth  thy  wide  wing  of  power 
Fold  their  immortal  labours  still; 
And  homage  wait,  to  this  good  hour, 
From  land  and  sea,  a  nation's  will? 


332  THE  POEMS  OF 

Why  thus — if  yon  misguided  men 
May  scorn  and  cast  away  the  tie, 
And  whisper  Dissolution,  when 
It  means  such  toil,  such  fruit  must  die } 

Yea,  meaneth  that  the  star  of  light, 
Which  streamed  and  burned  to  every  shore, 
The  world's  last  hope — in  low'ring-  nig-ht 
Must  sadly  set,  to  rise  no  more  ? 

What  boots  it  all,  if  coward  king's 
May  hush  their  terror  with  the  dead; 
And  they  may  scoff — yon  titled  things — 
The  dream  that  warned,  not  woke  them,  fled } 

And  if,  forever,  be  forgot 

The  hills,  once  wrapt  in  battle's  flame; 

And  perished  every  holy  spot 

Whose  gTeener  covering  tells  of  fame5 

Dissolve  the  Union?     aye,  'tis  well; 
Break  kindred  with  the  glorious  Slain; 
And  freedom  for  a  pottage  sell, 
And  clasp,  without  a  blush,  your  chain! 

Oh  no !   oh  no !  ye  will  not  dare 
To  name  it  where  ye  laid  the  brave; 
Ye  could  not  murmur  treason  there, 
Ye  could  not  mock  the  soldier's  grave. 

No!  breathe  it  far,  far  off,  where  beat 
Wild  storms,  in  some  accursed  clime; 


WILLIAM  13.  TAPPAN.  333 

Or  where  their  wail,  the  seas  repeat 
In  cadence,  to  the  tread  of  time. 

Yet  madmen,  stay!  'twill  not  be  long-; 
Oh  stay!  till  of  that  hoary  band, 
The  last  has  join'd  the  upward  throng*, 
Nor  mourned  a  mighty,  fallen  land. 
December,  1832. 


BEAUTY  IN  THE  GRAVE. 

On  seeing  an  ancient  picture  of  a  beautiful  Lady. 

How  loudly  rang*  her  ready  praise 

In  her  ancestral  hall, 
How  beauteous  at  the  levee,  once, 

How  graceful  at  the  ball: 
It  matters  not — that  fair  one  now, 

The  idol  of  the  brave, 
The  pageant  of  a  former  hour, 

Is  Beauty  in  the  Grave. 

How  much  admired  for  sparkling"  wit 

And  prized  for  virtues  true; 
How  by  the  multitude  esteemed, 

Beloved  by  the  few, 
It  matters  not — alike  the  same 

To  him,  as  is  the  slave, 
The  sordid  worm  holds  banqueting 

On  Beauty  in  the  Grave, 


334  THE  POEMS  OF 

The  well-proportioned  shape,  the  grace 

Of  woman's  queenly  tread, 
The  speaking*  eye,  the  budding"  lip, 

Of  nature's  dewy  red; 
The  thousand  witcheries  that  still 

Our  warmest  homage  crave, 
What  are  they  in  Death's  arms,  and  what 

Is  Beauty  in  the  Grave  ? 

Go  ye  to  whom  are  faultless  forms 

And  lovely  features  given, 
To  manifest  that  still  below 

Is  something  left  of  heaven; 
Go !  in  humility  forget 

The  charms  ye  cannot  save ; 
Look  hence  a  little  hour  and  see 

Your  Beauty  in  the  Grave. 

And  look  upon  the  laughing  earth, 

Where  spring  in  careless  play 
Puts  forth  its  fairest  blossoms,  but 

To  deck  them  with  decay. 
And  look  upon  the  face  of  all 

That's  beautiful  and  brave, 
On  every  blessing  lent  to  man 

Are  traces  of  the  Grave. 

Yet  gaze  on  one  from  whom  that  trace 

May  never  pass  away, 
Though  he  corruption  never  saw 

Nor  in  its  realm  could  stay: 


WILLIAM  B.  TAPPAN.  335 

And  see  in  the  immortal  scars 

That  may  the  sinner  save, 
The  victory  of  him  who  came 

In  beauty  from  the  Grave. 

June,  1834. 


PRECIOUS  DUST  IS  THAT! 

u  Do  you  see  the  end  of  that  coffin  there?"  asked  the  sexton. 
;  Precious  dust  is  that." — Pastoral  Skttclies. 

As  looking*  down  this  silent  vault, 

You  seek  the  wasting  dead, 
Dost  see,  just  by  the  narrow  door 

Reclined,  that  coffin's  head  ) 

And  that  is  William's  humble  couch, 

His  quiet  dwelling-,  where 
He  resteth  from  his  pilgrimage; 

And  precious  dust  is  there. 

And  blessed  is  his  memory, 

Though  thundered  not  by  fame; 
*Tis  treasured  in  our  Sabbath  school; 

The  children  lisp  his  name. 

He  had  no  garnered  gold,  yet  he 

In  faith  was  rich  indeed; 
Only  to  plant  sufficed  him  not, 

Praver  watered  too  the  seed. 


336  THE  POEMS  OF 

He  had  no  learning.     What  could  one 

Thus  poor  and  lowly  do } 
Much  in  that  whitened  field,  whose  gains 

Are  neither  small  nor  few. 

And  there  he  toiled,  and  watched,  and  wept, 

Believing'  from  the  root 
Thus  nurtured,  would  the  Spirit  bring 

Immediate,  living  fruit. 

And  now  he  resteth.     Pure  in  life, 

How  calm  in  death  was  he ! 
Like  him,  a  bright  and  blessed  one, 

O,  Jesus,  may  I  be. 

As  I  look  down  this  sepulchre, 

His  coffin  meets  me  first: 
I  moved  it  there,  for  pleasant  'tis 

To  me,  to  see  his  dust. 

His  friends  oft  cluster  here.  Of  peace 
What  thoughts  come  over  them, 

While  whispering  of  the  casket,  where 
Is  hid  so  rich  a  gem ! 

Not  so.     The  gem  across  whose  ray- 
Death's  shadow  was  not  thrown — 

So  beautiful,  God's  hand  hath  set 
With  jewels  of  his  own. 

And  in  that  day  of  beams,  to  which 

All  other  days  are  dim, 
Who  would  not,  'mid  the  shuddering  flight 

Of  worlds,  be  found  with  him> 


\\  ILL1AM    B.   TAPPAN.  337 


Was  she  not  lent  ye?  and  ye  weep 
When  God  would  rightly  claim  his  own; 
O  fondly  deem  not  ye  may  keep 
What  he  has  beckoned  to  the  throne. 

He  speaks  in  mercy,  as  he  spoke 
When  to  your  prayer  a  soul  was  given; 
When  he  this  deathless  germ  awoke, 
Whose  principle  should  live  in  heaven. 

"  And  take  this  child/'  was  the  behest, 
"And  wisely  nurture  it  for  me;" 
This  done,  O  surely  ye  are  blest 
To  yield  it  back  at  his  decree. 

Yea,  blest,  whose  bosom  tide  below 
Thus  follows  what  ye  purely  love ; 
And  only  turns  from  earth,  to  flow 
Untroubled,  in  a  world  above. 


Hast  thou  seen  the  cloud  of  morning 
Veil  with  gloom  the  azure  sky  ? 

Hast  thou  marked  the  rosy  dawning 
Wrapt  in  boding  darkness  fly? 

Thus  each  hope  is  fleeting  ever, 

Pleasure  meets  us,  soon  to  sever! 

Ff 


338  THE   POEMS  OF 

Hast  thou  seen — the  tempest  over — 
Radiant  suns  again  illume; 

Threatening1  storms  no  longer  hover, 
Nature  bud  with  fresher  bloom ? 

Thus,  through  darkest  clouds  of  even, 

Smiles  the  opening  dawn  of  heaven. 


SUNDAY  SCHOOL  HYMNS. 


The  angel-ranks  that  g'ird  the  throne 
Of  Majesty,  stand  not  alone; 
To  mortals,  disenthralled,  'tis  given 
To  j  oin  the  choral  hymn  of  heaven : 
Hark!   even  now  a  richer  strain 
Comes  floating  o'er  the  eternal  plain; 
To  infant  choirs  those  harps  belong, 
And  children's  voices  swell  that  song. 

Gabriel  ne'er  touched  a  sweeter  string, 

His  legions  listen  as  they  sing; 

O,  whence  those  cherub  minstrels, — say, — 

Clad  in  Immanuel's  bright  array? 

In  scenes  where  thoughtless  worldlings  dwell 

Their  lot  was  cast,  whose  lyres  now  swell 

The  thrilling  melody  above; 

Thine  be  the  praise,  O  God  of  love! 

The  Sunday  School!   Earth  has  no  name 
Worthier  to  fill  the  breath  of  Fame; 


WILLIAM  B.  TAPPAN. 

The  untold  blessing's  it  hath  shed, 

Shall  be  revealed  when  worlds  have  fled: 

O  thou  of  Bethlehem!  once  a  child, 

Jesus!   compassionate  and  mild, 

Approve  thy  work,  be  this  the  sum 

Of  all  our  toil— "  Thy  Kingdom  Come!" 


IL 

If  this  low  vale  of  strife  and  tears 

Were  never  sunned  by  Mercy's  beam, 
Where  gladness  now,  O  God,  appears, 

How  dark  would  thy  creation  seem! 
Revealed  in  splendours  was  thy  name, 

When  morn  her  banners  first  unfurled: 
Yet  lovelier  is  the  light  that  came, 

Shedding1  Redemption  o'er  a  world. 

To  this  high  impulse  man  has  bowed, 

And  frigid  hearts  have  learned  to  love; 
The  fierce  are  humbled — on  the  proud 

Sits  meekness,  like  a  peaceful  dove: 
Now  are  the  mighty  of  the  earth 

Workers  with  God — now  hoary  age 
Pants  to  partake  the  second  birth; 

Now  children  are  his  heritage. 

Earth  has  a  theme  allied  to  heaven, 
And  joys  like  those  that  linger  there, 

When  to  these  lisping  ones  is  given 
The  artless  eloquence  of  prayer; 


340  THE  POEMS  OF 

They  waken,  too,  a  trembling-  string-, 
While  holy  rapture  warms  and  thrills, 

With  hymns  as  sweet  as  seraphs  sing- 
Upon  those  everlasting*  hills. 

Our  hearts  rejoice — our  bosoms  g-low; 

This  hour  what  cheering-  visions  rise! 
These  children,  nurtured  thus  below, 

Shall  swell  the  assemblies  of  the  skies. 
Glorious  will  be  his  diadem, 

And  song's  and  ecstacies  unknown, 
Who  forms  for  God  one  beauteous  gem 

To  sparkle  on  the  eternal  throne. 


III. 

Our  fathers  rose  in  peril's  day, 
To  die,  or  life  and  land  to  free: 

O,  thou!  who  nerv'dst  them  for  that  fray, 
The  arms  and  victory  were  from  thee ; 

And  thou  that  didst  for  them  decree 
A  passage  throug-h  the  countless  host, 

Saviour  from  chariot  and  from  sea, 
-    Thou  art  the  God  in  whom  we  boast! 

Upon  our  fair  and  favoured  land 
Descends  abundance  in  a  shower; 

And  many  a  brig-lit  and  joyous  band 
Their  banners  rear  to  peace  this  hour; 

Convened  beneath  our  leafy  bower, 

The  turf  our  shrine — the  sky  our  dome 


WILLIAM  li.  TAPPvN.  341 

"We  praise  thee,  thou  Protecting*  Power  1 
For  blessings  past — for  hopes  to  come. 

And  Lord'  from  thy  pavilion  shine 

Upon  the  offering-,  as  thou'st  shone; 
And  be  each  heart's  inscription  thine, 

To  God  unseen,  yet  not  unknown ' 
And  O,  propitious  from  thy  throne 

Of  starry  light,  behold  us  now: 
And  let  the  thought  of  thee  alone 

Possess  our  bosoms  as  we  bow. 

Long  look,  and  kindly  on  the  soil 

Once  watered  with  the  pilgrims'  tear; 
And  grant  that  all  their  prayers  and  toil 

May  yield  to  thee  a  harvest  here; 
And  as  thy  hand  metes  out  the  year, 

Bless  thou  the  ruled  and  those  that  rule: 
And  O,  our  God!  be  ever  near 

In  love,  to  bless  the  Sunday  School, 


IV. 

O  Saviour  !  w ere  thine  arms  of  love 
Around  Judea's  children  thrown, 

When  thou  didst  say  that  such  above, 
Thou  would' st  before  thy  Father  own  ? 

Then  we,  to  seek  thy  face  to-day, 
In  simple  confidence  will  come; 

And  where  thy  chosen  offspring  stay, 
The  gentile,  too,  shall  find  a  home. 
f  f  2 


342 


THE  POEMS  OF 


Are  not  the  world's  rebuking*s  stilled 
As  infant  lips  their  warb lings  raise, 

And  heaven  its  promise  sees  fulfilled, 

That  thou  from  babes  wilt  perfect  praise? 

Then  we  will  join  the  noble  strain, 

Heard  first,  when  stars  their  courses  trod; 

And  later,  on  the  Shepherd's  plain, 
Of  Peace  to  Man  and  Praise  to  God. 

O  let  this  hour,  the  thundering*  drum 
Proclaim  the  triumphs  of  the  free; 

We'll  sing-,  away  from  tumult's  hum, 
The  peace  that  purely  flows  from  thee; 

From  thee,  that  led'st  our  fathers'  bands, 
And  taught  their  arms  the  fig-lit  to  win; 

Give  victory  to  the  children's  hands, 
Now  break  for  them  the  chains  of  sin ! 

And  as  thou  with  the  upper  spring" 
Hast  freely  blest  the  eastern  soil, 

O  bid  the  nether  waters  fling* 

Refreshing's  o'er  this  valley's  toil: 

And  send  thy  light  and  send  thy  power 
And  love,  the  waking*  world  abroad, 

Till  earth  resemble  Eden's  bower, 
A  second  garden  of  the  Lord. 

Cincinnati,  July  4,  1832, 


WILLIAM  B.  TAPPAN.  343 


MY  COUNTRY LIBERTY. 

Yet  on  thy  lovely  robe  of  light 

Where  starry  gems  in  glory  lie, 
One  spot  is  seen,  that's  dipped  in  night 

One  cloud  yet  stains  thy  brilliant  sky. 
'Tis  slavery — yea,  the  negro's  tear 

Has  steep'd  the  soil  where  martyrs  bled; 
His  withering  curse  has  met  the  ear, 

Breathed  o'er  the  bones  of  Freedom's  dead. 
Farewell  to  Liberty  for  thee, 
'Till  these,  thy  basely  thralled,  are  free. 


Shall  slavery  triumph?  let  the  dust 
Of  slaughtered  patriots  answer  thee; 
Shall  slavery  triumph? — freeman!  first 
Extinct  thy  land  and  name  shall  be. 

Look  up !  look  up !  the  charter  lives, 
'Tis  lettered  with  thy  father's  blood; 
Yet  false  the  promise  that  it  gives, 
A  lure  to  man,  a  lie  to  God. 

"  All  men  are  free" — and  free  are  they, 
The  noble  words  though  thou  heed  not; 
And  sooner  earth  will  pass  away, 
Than  of  their  truth  shall  pass  one  jot. 

The  haughty — let  them  still  defame, 
And  stir  their  vassals  to  the  strife ; 


344  THE  POEMS  OF 

In  such  a  conflict  what's  a  name? 
To  glorious  freedom,  what  is  life  ? 

And,  let  them  rage  and  overturn, 
And  gnash  upon  us  if  they  will — 
Our  temples,  dwellings,  raze  and  burn; 
Earth's  Ruler  mocks  their  madness  still. 

We  care  not,  if  the  slave  repeat, 
Released,  our  humble  deeds  in  prayer; 
We  care  not,  so  our  names  but  meet 
With  Wilberfohce,  in  blessing's  there. 


ALL  ARE  NOT  FREE  ! 

All  are  not  free! — My  country,  is  it  thus? 

And  is  thy  consecrated  soil  deep  stained 

With  Ethiopian  tears  of  bondage?  Free? 

And  art  thou  free,  whose  thousands  till  and  curse 

Thy  soil,  unfriendly ?  Never  canst  thou  claim 

That  god-like  title  till  the  slave  is  free. 

True,  some  are  found  among  thy  sons,  that  scorn 

Their  fellow  beings  to  retain  on  terms 

So  abject,  damning,  to  the  name  of  Man. 

Who  envies  not,  and  envying,  would  not  seek 

The  pearl,  of  price  unknown,  Philanthropy ? 

To  see  the  enfranchised  African  look  out 

From  misery's  abyss,  to  the  glad  light 

Of  beaming  cheerfulness,  and  on  the  face 


WILLIAM   B.  TAPPAN.  345 

Where  anguish  lately  sat,  to  see  the  tear 

Of  gratitude  and  joy — who  would  not  part 

With  hoards  of  avarice  to  win  that  smile 5 

With  slavery's  gains  to  buy  that  holy  tear! 

Soul  of  Benevolence!  thou  that  below 

Dwellest,  a  bright  and  pure  Intelligence, 

Lending  to  our  gross  earth  somewhat  of  heaven — 

Thou  art  not  seen  in  the  recorded  deed 

Of  purse-proud  grandeur,  nor  dost  thou  delight 

In  Ostentation's  alms,  whose  left  hand  knows 

And  trumpets  forth  its  fellow's  charity: 

'Tis  the  disinterested  act  that  claims, 

And  truly  claims,  applause  of  man  and  God. 


A.H  EVENIWG  THOUGHT. 

Hast  thou,  my  soul,  improved  each  power, 
With  zeal,  this  dat,  for  God  and  man' 
Has  diligence  marked  every  hour, 
As  though  this  day  might  close  the  span ' 

O!  if  another  opening  morn 

On  earth,  should  never  smile  on  thee — 

Wert  thou  to  meet  another  dawn 

In  yon  unknown  eternity — 

Should' st  thou  with  grief  review  this  day, 
And  tremble  at  Jehovah's  rod5 
Or,  would'st  thou  calmly  soar  away, 
To  welcome  an  approving  God  ? 


346  THE  POEMS  OF 


I  LOVE  THE  BLUSH  OF  EARLY  MORN. 

I  love  the  blush  of  early  morn, 
That  beams  with  rosy  hue; 
When  sparkling  o'er  the  verdant  lawn, 
It  gems  the  crystal  dew. 

'Tis  then  I  muse  on  Mary's  smile, 
That  dimpling  bright  and  fair, 
My  sorrow  always  can  beguile, 
And  charm  each  latent  care. 

I  love  the  mildly  pensive  ray, 
That  lonely  twilight  cheers: 
When  gleaming  at  the  close  of  day, 
It  shines  through  evening's  tears. 

'Tis  then  fond  memory  softly  says, 
While  throbs  my  bosom  move — 
That  such  is  Mary's  tender  gaze, 
And  such  her  glance  of  love. 


MUSIC. 


Thou  dear  enchantress  of  the  soul! 

Whose  magic  skill  life's  ills  can  calm, 
Whose  nod  can  bid  the  whirlwind  roll, 

Whose  whisper  can  its  rage  disarm: 


WILLIAM  B.  TAPPAN.  -347 

Sweet  Music!   I  invoke  thy  power  : 
Thou  bid'st  the  aspiring  spirit  rise; 

Thou  charnVst  existence5  tearful  hour, 
And  pointest  hope  to  yonder  skies. 

In  life's  drear  maze  I've  wandered  long", 
And  sought  for  peace,  but  none  could  find, 

Till  listening-  to  the  thrilling-  song*, 
My  bosom  owned  its  influence  kind. 

O,  if  to  finite  state  be  given 

Some  emanation  from  above, 
Some  foretaste  of  a  brighter  heaven, 

'Tis  Music  from  the  lips  we  love 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  AMERICA. 

Where  warrior  feet  once  press'd  the  soil, 
And  Freedom  led  her  thousands  on, 

Hath  Knowledge  gather'd  goodly  spoil, 
And  meek  Religion  trophies  won. 

O'er  valleys  where  repose  the  brave, 
Her  lovely  stars  hath  Peace  unfurled; 

And  harvests  on  the  hill-tops  wave, 

Where  once  the  cloud  of  battle  curled. 

There  bowed  the  hostile  ranks  in  death — 
There  bent  our  sires  the  willing  knee, 


348  THE  POEMS  OF 

And  from  that  ground,  Lord  God!  the  breath 
Of  glad  thanksgiving  rose  to  thee. 

Thou  who  didst  nerve  their  dauntless  hosts, 
And  give  them  victory  on  that  field, 

From  deadlier  foemen  guard  these  coasts, 
From  sin,  O  God  !  the  children  shield. 

Thou  went'st  before  them,  King  of  kings ! 

And  on  their  camp  thy  power  shone  out; 
O,  that  the  shadow  of  thy  wings 

Might  ever  compass  these  about. 

Make  thou  this  land  a  heritage 

Refreshed  by  kindly  sun  and  shower — 

Whose  youth  shall  bloom,  from  age  to  age, 
Thy  right-hand  plants  of  fairest  flower. 

Thy  smiles  they  need,  their  care  to  crown, 
Who  watch  the  gate  or  build  the  dome; 

Lord !  on  our  toil  send  unction  down, 
And  gather  these  immortals  home. 

And  be  the  pearls  of  lustre  ours, 

The  gems  that  heaven  might  seek  to  wear — 
Children  arrayed  in  yonder  bowers, 

Led  by  our  tears  and  watchings  there. 


WILLIAM  B.  TAPPAX.  349 


YES  IT  IS  SWEET  TO  CONTEMPLATE. 

Yes  it  is  sweet  to  contemplate 
The  awful,  pleasing*  hour, 
When  yielding'  to  relentless  fate, 
We  own  death's  iron  power. 

'Tis  sweet  to  rest  the  aching  head 
In  yonder  peaceful  tomb, 
Where  the  tall  grass  around  the  bed, 
Luxuriantly  doth  bloom. 

And  O,  when  by  the  world  forgot, 

I  sleep  unconscious  there — 

Will  not  some  wild-flower  deck  the  spot. 

Nourished  by  friendship's  tear? 

Sweeter  will  this  cold  bosom  rest, 
If  prized  in  memory; 
Lighter  the  clod  upon  my  breast, 
Rede  wed,  mv  friend,  by  thee. 


CAPE  MAY. 

New  Jersey  !   thy  blue  hills  are  fair  to  the  vision, 
Serene  are  the  beauties  thy  valleys  display; 
Thy  streams  are  romantic,  thy  gardens  elysian,     . 
And  dear  to  this  bosom  thy  sea-beat  Cape  Mat. 


350  THE  POEMS  OF 

How  pleasant  to  wander  where  nought  but  old  ocean 
Is  heard  interrupting  calm  nature's  repose; 
Or  gaily  to  mingle  where  pleasure  in  motion 
Waits  on  the  first  day-beam  and  hallows  its  close. 

Sweet  innocence,  beauty  and  fashion  uniting, 
See  the  votaries  of  health  and  good-feeling  appear; 
Gay  wit  wreaths  the  bowl  with  rich  humour  inviting, 
And  Pleasure  is  queen  of  the  festival  here. 

How  tranquil  the  scene,  when  Atlantic's  proud  billow 
Sleeps  calm  'neath  the  moon-ray !    When  tempests 

deform; 
*Tis  truly  majestic,  as  roused  from  his  pillow, 
The  god  of  the  waters  careers  on  the  storm: 

When  deep  calls  to  deep  and  the  surge  mocks  the 

mountain, 
And  the  voice  of  the  tempest  is  heard  on  the  main, 
When  the  storm-cloud,  in  anger,  has  opened  its 

fountain, 
And  the  torrent  has  deluged  the  valley  and  plain ! 

Soon  the  gale  dies  in  whispers,  the  billows  are 
bounding, 

The  moans  of  the  tempest  in  sympathy  cease; 

While  I  gaze  at  new  beauties  the  prospect  sur- 
rounding, 

My  heart  is  expanded  to  pleasure  and  peace. 

Though  thy  blue  hills,  New  Jersey  !  are  fair  to  the 

vision, 
Unnumbered  the  beauties  thy  valleys  display; 


WILLIAM   B.  TPPAAN.  351 

Though  thy  streams  are  romantic,  thy  gardens  ely- 

sian, 
Yet  lovelier,  I  reckon,  thy  sea-beat  Cape  Mat. 


In  the  British  Museum  I  viewed  a  tombstone,  that  parentai 
affection  had  reared  in  a  city  of  Greece,  two  thousand  years  ago. 
I  reflected  that  the  parents  had  followed  their  son  to  a  dark  and 
cheerless  grave—  Two  thousand  years  ago,  in  Greece,  a  future 
life  and  immortality  were  unknown*— Letters  of  an  American. 

The  father  mourned  his  only  son, 

And  who  might  check  those  tears } 
The  grave  was  now  to  close  upon 

The  hope  of  waning  years; 
But  she  unto  her  bosom  pressed 

Her  child,  in  agony; 
For  never  more  upon  that  breast, 

Might  he,  her  loved  one,  he. 

And  who  the  wild  despair  may  tell, 

That  o'er  her  spirit  past, 
That  mother — when  she  sighed  farewell, 

And  drank  that  look — the  last! 
O,  she  knew  not  the  babe  she  wept 
"  Now  trod  yon  sparkling  plain; 
That  he  who  in  corruption  slept, 

Should  wake  to  smiles  again. 

They  gave  that  infant  to  the  earth, 
But  grayed  not  on  the  stone 


352  THE  POEMS  OF 

Of  resurrection's  living  birth, 
When  wasted  worlds  were  flown: 

Yet  what  of  mercy  now  appears 
To  heal  death's  dart  of  wo, 

We,  who  lament  with  chastened  tears 
Our  buried  ones,  may  know. 


FOR  MY  CHILD. 

O  Lord  my  God!  I  would  not  seek 
Those  glances  that  the  guilty  shun; 

Only  that  thou  hast  said,  the  weak 
And  tried,  are  fellows  with  thy  Son. 

And  though  earth's  proud  ones  may  not  meet 
Acceptance,  where  thy  chosen  pray; 

In  helplessness,  before  thy  feet, 
Where  angels  kneel,  a  father  may. 

He  comes  to  thee  in  confidence, 
A  pleader  for  his  offspring  now; 

Thou'lt  hear!  for  in  Judea  once 

The  robe  of  childhood  worest  thou. 

And  only  thou  didst  give  these  ties, 

Pure  kindlings — this  dark  world  to  cheer; 

To  whom  then,  should  a  father's  cries 
Be  gathered,  save  unto  thine  ear? 

Thine  ear,  that  drinks  the  lightest  sigh 
Breathed  from  this  vale  of  sighs,  as  soon 


WILLIAM   B.   TAPPAX.  333 

As  trumpet  tones  that  ring*  on  high 
The  joys  of  thy  eternal  noon. 

I  know  what  hope's  revealing^  are, 

Though  frail — what  faith's  supportings  be; 

"When  with  the  giant  arm  of  prayer 
I  lift  my  child  aloft  to  thee. 

Thou'lt  hear! — and  yet  what  form  of  speech 

Shall  all  a  father's  heart  reveal, 
When  every  pulse  the  throne  would  reach, 

When  strong*  dealings  bid  me  kneel, 

And  ask  that  he  who  stills  the  wave, 
Who  touches,  and  in  wrath  'tis  curled, 

Will  save  him  who  goes  forth  to  brave 
The  deeps  of  an  unquiet  world! 

Thou  who  didst  mould  his  perfect  form, 
And  round  it  bid  the  current  roll: 

And  lighting  up  the  life -blush  warm, 
Informed  it  with  a  conscious  soul: 

God — whose  own  breath  in  infant  hour, 
His  budding1  graces  cheered  and  fanned, 

Till  ripening-  out  in  boyhood's  flower, 
Their  charms  confess  the  Maker's  hand; 

Who  else  but  thee  can  cause  to  run 

In  holy  ways,  his  faltering"  feet; 
And  fling"  around  that  trusting"  one, 

The  arm  that  back  the  storm  shall  beat* 

Gg2 


3  54  THE  POEMS  OF 

But  thee,  to  whom  1  gave  him  when 
Baptismal  waters  bathed  his  brow } 

Thy  promise  calmed  my  spirit  then, 
Renew  it,  for  I  yield  him  now. 


VERSES, 


ON   SEEING   AX   ANCIENT  PEAR  TREE,    WHICH   WAS 
IMPORTED   FROM   HOLLAND   IN   1647- 

Thou  ancient  tree, 

Surviver  of  the  storm, 

"Wondrous  to  me 

Thy  venerable  form. 

The  blast  of  years 

Has  strewed  the  neighbouring  soil, 

While  thou  survivest 

The  angry  whirlwind's  spoil. 

Long  hast  thou  nourished 

Liberal  of  richest  fruit; 

And  various  soils  have  nourished 

Thy  healthy  root. 

From  Holland's  moistened  clime 

Our  fathers  bore  the  prize, 

In  early  time 

To  thrive  'neath  western  skies. 


WILLIAM  B.  TAPPAX.  355 

Perhaps  thy  shade 

Has  often  screened  our  sires 

From  summer's  ray, 

And  autumn's  milder  fires: 

Beneath  thy  boughs  reclined 

Visions  of  ages  rose; 

They  saw  a  nation  free, 

Triumphant  o'er  its  foes. 

Perhaps,  in  each  fond  heart 
Was  liberal  feeling  found; 
They,  too,  wept  sorrow's  smart, 
And  smiled  in  pleasure's  round: 
The  voice  of  friendship 
Could  lull  each  bosom  care; 
The  song  of  love 
Could  waken  rapture  there . 

Where  are  they? 

Thou  sawest  them  disappear— 

They  sleep  in  clay 

Forgotten  is  the  tear. 

And  we  shall  follow: 

Yes,  hoary  tree ! 

Thy  arms  will  brave  the  blast, 

When  we  to  our  eternity 

Have  past. 


356  THE  POEMS  OF 


EUROPE 1826. 

Euiiope!  vicissitudes  are  thine, 

The  tyrant's  scourge  by  thee  is  felt; 
Thou  bendest  at  the  idol  shrine 

To  which  our  fathers  darkly  knelt. 
Unhappy  Spain!  thou  once  wast  free 

As  are  the  waves  that  lash  thy  shore; 
Yet  hath  the  bigot  vanquished  thee; 

Yon  heaven,  that  saw  the  ruffian  pour 
Thy  blood,  as  water  on  the  ground, 

Yon  heaven,  that  heard  the  vow  accursed 
That  binds  the  holy  miscreant  band, 
Shall  smile  on  thee,  ill-fated  land; 
And,  starting  from  thy  depth  profound, 

Thou  shalt  arise,  and  from  the  dust 
Of  these,  thy  martyr' d,  swords  shall  leap 
To  tell  that  justice  cannot  sleep. 
Rejoice,  fell  spirit  of  despair! 

Inquisitorial  demons,  hail! 
I  see  your  vengeance  darkly  glare, 

Already  death-shrieks  load  the  gale ; 
Yet,  mock  not,  France !  thy  victory's  vain, 
Thy  ruthless  hand  hath  forged  the  chain, 

The  iron,  true,  is  deeply  driven, 

Cursed  be  the  bolt  that  slaves  have  riven— 
At  freedom's  soul-inspiring  call, 

Which  Spain  shall  hear,  and  hearing  live, 
The  bolt  and  chain  will,  scattered,  fall; 

The  dead  in  bondage  shall  revive — 


WILLIAM  B.  TAPPAN.  357 

Aye,  and  of  them  that  crush  thee  now, 
Those  fiends  of  an  unthought-of  hell — 

If  one  survive,  his  gloomy  brow 

Stamped  with  that  Cain-like  guilt,  shall  tell 

To  wondering  men  the  quenchless  shame 

Of  him  that  scorns  the  patriot's  name. 


WE  MAY   HALLOW  THE  SPOT, 

We  may  hallow  the  spot  where  the  warriors  rest, 

Where  their  record  we've  blazoned  on  stone; 
We  may  call  to  our  shores  Europe's  thousands  op- 
pressed, 

That  have  fled  from  the  cottage  and  throne. 
We  may  weave  it  in  song  that  Columbia's  fame 

Is  of  earth's  coward  despots  the  ban; 
And  wherever  seas  roll  that  her  glorious  name 

Is  the  watchword  of  freedom  to  man. 
Vain  all !  if  in  chaplets  that  circle  her  now, 

Shall  no  leaf  of  Religion  be  seen; 
If  Science  bloom  not  in  the  light  of  her  brow, 

With  the  amaranth-garland  of  green. 

We  may  love  the  stern  purpose  that  trustingly  laid 
The  rock  of  her  greatness  in  prayer; 

And  the  virtue  and  valour  that  constantly  stayed 
The  storm,  may  our  gratitude  share. 


35S  THE  POE?-IS  OF 

Vain  all,  if  not  cherished — for  God,  whose  decree 

Has  exalted  her  destinies  high, 
Proclaims  that  the  nation  made  mighty  and  free 

By  the  Truth  only,  never  can  die. 
Near  this  beautiful  stream,  on  the  soil  of  our  Pexx, 

The  shrine*  to  that  truth  which  we  rear 
We  will  base  on  Religion,  and  Liberty  then 

Shall  rejoice  in  her  worshippers  here. 

While  time  lays  the  altars  of  nations  gone  by 

With  the  shafts  of  their  temples  in  dust, 
From  this,  shall  pure  incense  ascend  to  the  sky, 

When  the  foot-fall  of  ages  is  hushed. 
The  fire  that  came  down  on  their  offerings,  untrue, 

Is  quenched — 'twas  unhallowed  and  dim; 
But  the  flame  that  burns  here,  will  Jehovah  renew, 

For  its  brightness  is  borrowed  from  him. 
O!  our  beautiful  land  in  its  breadth  and  its  length, 

By  the  pilgrim  and  patriot  trod — 
With  the  wreck  of  the  past  shall  not  lie,  if  its 
strength 

And  its  glory  be  given  to  God. 

July  23d,  1834. 


*  Bristol  College  on  the  Delaware.  Prnn>ylvania. 


WILLIAM  B.  TAPPAN.  359 


THE  WEARY  WHEELS. 

The  weary  wheels — the  weary  wheels — 
O,  when  will  they  at  length  stand  still? 
Yet  hush,  this  toiling*  fabric  feels 
It  must  perform  its  Maker's  will. 

The  days  of  pain — the  days  of  pain — 
O,  when  will  these  at  last  be  o'er5- 
Yet  are  complaining's  only  vain, 
I  kiss  the  rod  and  still  adore. 

The  nights  of  tears — the  nights  of  tears — 
O,  when  will  come  the  welcome  morn  ? 
Yet  hope,  the  solacer  of  fears, 
Shall  to  my  darkness  bring  the  dawn. 

The  buried  friend — the  buried  friend — 
Joys!  ye  are  coffined  with  his  dust; 
Y'et  this  bereaved  heart  shall  blend 
With  his,  that  fled  from  sorrow  first. 

The  quiet  earth — the  quiet  earth — 
When  shall  I  on  its  bosom  he } 
Yet  he  that  called  me  into  birth 
Alone  may  bid  me  when  to  die. 

The  joyful  heaven — the  joyful  heaven — 

Remaineth  there  for  me  a  rest? 

Yet  sins  and  follies  all  forgiven, 

I  mav  be  numbered  with  the  blessed. 


360  THE  POEMS  OF,  &C. 

The  wondrous  cross — the  wondrous  cross — 
Its  shame  the  proud  refuse  to  share; 
Yet  unto  me  the  world  is  dross 
To  gems  that  shine  and  cluster  there. 

Then  weary  wheels — then  weary  wheels 
Roll  onward  at  my  Father's  will; 
For  as  a  child  my  spirit  feels 
Submissive  at  his  feet,  and  still. 


THE  END. 


